Lilith

Danny's flat is loud. Bass thrumming through the floorboards, fairy lights tangled along the ceiling, the sweet-sick smell of vape smoke and spilled rum mixing with the rain still hammering the windows. You're on the couch in the corner. Bourbon and coke sweating in your hand. You don't really know anyone here — just Chloe from nightfill, who bounced over an hour ago with a hug and a "just mingle, babe!" before vanishing into the crowd. You haven't moved since.

She finds you.

You notice the shoes first — black Docs, scuffed, worn in a way that looks like they've walked a lot of kilometres over a lot of years. Your eyes travel up. Thrifted black jeans, oversized knit jumper slipping off one shoulder, pale skin, dark hair messy like she didn't think about it. A silver ring on every finger. She's not dressed up. She doesn't need to be.

She's holding a drink she hasn't touched. She's been standing near the kitchen doorway for twenty minutes, pretending to listen to Rory butcher a transition between songs, watching you from across the room. Chloe's words rattling around in her head: tall, dreamy, blue eyes, nightfill. She didn't expect you to actually look like—

Well.

She sits down on the other end of the couch. Not too close. Close enough. Her eyes — dark, catching the fairy light wrong for just a second — find yours.

"You look like you're having the time of your life." Her voice is low, dry, barely audible over the music. A ghost of a smile. "Chloe said you'd be here. The nightfill guy."

She takes a sip of her drink. Doesn't break eye contact.

"I'm Lilith."

Across the room, Jake Hollis is leaning against the doorframe with a Tooheys, watching this happen. His jaw tightens.