The neon lights of the "Blue Velvet" lounge were just blurred streaks against the rain-slicked window. Inside, the air tasted of expensive gin and fading perfume.
The slowed, hollowed-out beat of the instrumental pulsed through the floorboards—less a song and more a heartbeat under sedation. Elias sat in the corner booth, his glass sweating onto the mahogany table. He wasn't waiting for anyone; he was waiting for a feeling to leave.
They moved to the center of the floor. In the original tempo, this was a song for a crowded club, for sweat and fast breathing. But at this speed, it was a funeral march for a relationship that hadn't quite ended yet.
He pulled her in. The world outside—the debts, the secrets, the city's noise—dissolved into the reverb. Every snare hit felt like a mile of distance; every piano chord felt like a memory they were both trying to hold onto before the track faded into static.
They didn't speak. They didn't need to. In the stretched-out silence between the notes, they said everything. They danced until the loop finished, and when the last echo died away, the chair across from him was empty again, the only proof of her presence being the lingering scent of sandalwood and the cold condensation on his glass.
Should we add a to bridge the gap between them, or