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The night was heavy with the kind of southern heat that clings to your skin, thick as sin and twice as sweet. The bar, a crumbling, timeworn relic tucked off the highway, throbbed with a slow pulse of life.
Neon lights hummed in the windows, casting everything in a dirty red glow like the low burn of a cigarette in the dark. The place smelled of sweat and cheap perfume, a sour mix of old whiskey and the ghosts of a thousand conversations no one could quite remember.
There was something almost holy about it, like stepping into a chapel where bad things happened under the guise of absolution.
Hazel was the flame in the middle of it all, burning too bright and too fast.
She stood out against the bodies like a wild thing—bare shoulders glistening under the dim lights, her dark hair falling loose and free in waves down her back, catching the light just enough to make it look like a halo, something unearthly.
A white bardot dress clung to her figure, the straps barely hanging on, as if the fabric itself had given up the fight to keep her contained. And those old suede cowboy boots—worn and dusty, like they carried the weight of every bad decision she'd ever made—finished the look. She was undeniable, a vision of ruin wrapped in beauty.
She didn't need Jacob's jacket tonight. She didn't need anything.
"Dreams" by Fleetwood Mac crooned through the speakers, Stevie Nicks' voice haunting the room, weaving through the smoky air like a spell.
Hazel swayed to the music, her hips moving with the lazy rhythm, eyes half-lidded as she let herself drown in the night. Tommy, lanky and sweet, danced beside her with the kind of enthusiasm that made him seem almost boyish.
He had his arm slung low around her waist, but he knew—everyone knew—that it wasn't his moment. Hazel was dancing for herself, not for him. Not for anyone.
She spun, tipping her head back with a low, throaty laugh, her hands in her hair, fingers curling through the dark strands like she was trying to shake free from something. Or someone.
She looked alive, untethered, like the world had melted away and all that was left was this—the music, the heat, the way her body moved like she was born for it. Unburdened by the past, for once.
At the bar, Penny kept a close watch. Her blonde hair fell over her shoulders like corn silk, catching the lights as she ordered another round, always the orchestrator, the one pulling strings even when no one noticed.
She leaned back against the counter, eyes gleaming as she surveyed the scene, amused, and maybe a little smug, as if she knew something no one else did.
