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She steps forward. One step. Two. The crowd parts like water. Her eyes never leave his.
This isn’t chasing. This isn’t begging. This is an invitation. A challenge.
And for a moment, the world holds its breath—because she’s already decided: she’s not going to him. He’s going to come to her.
She doesn’t say it aloud. She doesn’t have to. The song says it for her—Selena’s voice, half a whisper, half a dare, curling through the smoke and the static. You ain’t gotta work it, I can tell you’re worth it.
He sets down his glass.
Come and get it.
Come and get it.
He’s across the room, leaning against the bar, pretending not to notice. But she sees the way his fingers tighten around his glass. The way his jaw shifts when she runs a hand through her hair.
The beat drops again. And he does.
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