The amount of research I have to do for all my novels would be a lot less if I had chosen to set my stories in New Zealand - my home. When I first, first started writing Nightlife in December of 2019, Krista was nineteen.

Then I realised Americans can't drink until they're twenty-one.

I know some people who retire from the clubbing lifestyle by the time they're twenty-one, having burned through it all in their late teens. Cough. Me.

Anyways. Enjoy, lovelies!

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glared at Quen's friend, and sprung into action.

One of the security guards, Charlie, came round the side of the DJ booth and I descended the stairs to meet him. He spoke gruffly toward Quen and his two friends, who were a mere two feet away, separated by the black metal partition.

"Are these guys causing trouble?"

Quen kept his face calm, his eyes still wandering over me like he was looking at a mirage. The other boy, who was helping Quen to support their obviously intoxicated friend, pleaded with me.

"He's fine," the blond explained. "We waited so long to get in here, we'll get him some water and sober him up. Promise."

Charlie and I exchanged dubious glances. The distinction between having a good time and a dangerous time on the town could be as thin as the rim of one more shot glass.

We didn't want his friend to go around harassing other women, or vomiting, or damaging the property. Basically, heavily drunk people were a liability. And we threw liabilities out.

Something took control of my mouth before I could spit out our usual protocol. "Put them in the VIP lounge till he sobers up. Booth four just got vacated. Can you tell front of house to bring two baskets of fries there ASAP? You can charge it to my tab."

Charlie wasn't convinced. "That middle one doesn't look so good. Don't know if he will be awake to eat."

"I know them," I countered smoothly, with a breezy smile. "I will take responsibility for them."

"There wasn't ever a question about that, Kris," he shot back. "I was just checking if that's what you really want to do."

"It is. Let Zach know where I am and that I'm safe. He was worried about it getting crazy tonight."

"Rightly so, it seems," Charlie said, shooting a suspicious look at the three boys.

I clamped down on the nervous twisting of my stomach to beam at him, all charm. "Thanks, Charlie."

He couldn't help but give a gruff, reluctant smirk back to me. I was Topaz' golden child. Being one of the youngest staff members, the most visible, and certainly the most well-behaved, the bar, kitchen and security staff all went out of their way to protect me. It was the biggest comfort whenever I had shifts.

I crooked my finger at Quen, telling him to follow me. The security guard who was manning the stairs to the VIP lounge stepped back when I approached, leading the three boys.

"They're going to sober up in booth four. I'll handle anything that happens with them, okay?"

He nodded, pulled back the velvet rope and let us pass. The staircase wasn't wide enough for the three of them to walk up side-by-side, so Quen's sober friend hefted their drunk friend more securely in his arms and began the climb slowly. Quen and I followed behind.

"You look so different," he told me.

"Good different?"

Quen furrowed his eyebrows, giving my face and attire a calculating once-over. His features were markedly more drawn, more reserved, than every other time I had seen him.

"I guess so."

Well. That was a watery response.

When we cleared the stairs, I scanned the VIP lounge. Quiet, because the party was downstairs. The room was L-shaped, with booths along the longest wall. The bar ran along the shortest wall, and hidden around the corner was the Pit—a depressed square bordered by black faux leather couches. For lovers.

Aside from weak lamps flush in the ceiling, the lighting came from the rainbow strip LEDs underneath the bar. It cast the house liquor in various shades of buy me, and threw colours onto the wooden floor as I strode across it.

Zach bought them from Wish.

Quen's two friends immediately made for booth four, marked by a table number. I was going to join them and assess the intoxication levels of the drunk friend when Quen's hand closed around my wrist.

He spun me around to face him, and my eyes widened at the sudden movement. His grip was gentle but solid, and my gaze immediately shot to his hand. The veins that corded their way up his forearms hinted at some hidden strength. When I looked back up, I was close enough to his face to see the obvious flush to his cheeks, the haziness in his dark brown eyes and his heavy breathing.

How could Drunk Quen be even cuter than normal Quen? And without makeup, too. That wasn't fair.

Quen suddenly let go of my wrist as if it had burned him. He cleared his throat. "Sorry. I just wanted to thank you. For looking after Fraser. I know it might be an uncomfortable position since you're at work."

I flashed him a tight-lipped smile. "You're welcome, Quen. But I didn't do this for Fraser."

"Oh." Quen swallowed, and opened his mouth to say something.

Emerging from behind us, a voice shattered the moment.

"Where's my buddy Quen?" Fraser had regained enough consciousness to look around, startled. "Don't tell me he folded already!"

"I'm right here," Quen told him, the both of us walking over.

We squeezed into one side of the booth together. The sleeve of his black t-shirt brushed my bare shoulder, and a shiver ran down my spine at the whispery touch.

Quen's other friend, the blond, grabbed both of Fraser's shoulders and eyed him seriously. "You nearly got us kicked out, so shut up, try not to vomit and wait for the food. Understand?"

"Yes, Mom," Fraser drawled. He stared at the table number in front of him with intense interest for ten seconds. Then he looked up. "Wait. What food?"

"Never mind that." His friend rolled his eyes.

The blond then seemed to notice me watching them, his eyes skimming up and down my body. There was a delighted gleam in his eye that Quen lacked, though I didn't understand why that irritated me.

An eyebrow arched, his eyes glinting curiously below. "The damsel saves the knights in distress. I'm Noah."

I was familiar with Noah's type. They knew that girls played hard-to-get, so they would play harder-to-get to break their aloof fronts. They didn't chase. They baited. Emotionally unavailable.

Noah's smirk, his quick remarks and cool manner were as much flirting as any girl could get out of him, but I recognised it as flirting plain as day. He reached across the table to shake my hand. I obliged.

A silent exhale seeped from me, and I smiled sweetly. "Krista."

"So, you are the Krista Ming," Noah said. "I didn't know you worked at Topaz."

In my periphery, I saw Quen glance between the two of us, confused. He inched away from me so that his sleeve lost all contact with my skin.

"As lucrative as paid promotions are," I quipped, "Med school is going to be expensive. I work a lot of odd jobs."

Noah smirked wider. "Well, colour me curious."

I didn't miss the way his eyes narrowed curiously at the mention of odd jobs. I had an inkling of what ran through Noah's head, but if he knew the truth—or read any of my scientific articles—I think he would have been surprised, and rather disappointed. But I simply mirrored his sly smirk and leaned deeper into the booth.

Quen placed a hand on the table, drawing our attention to the movement. Fraser had let his head loll against the back of the booth, his eyes staring unfocused at the ceiling.

He was the only one who didn't register Quen asking, "Wait, what are you talking about Noah?"

"Bro." Noah clicked his tongue like he was disappointed. I hated this patronising, overly-stoic role he was playing. "She's an influencer. She's famous."

And of course he would drop the fact that I had wanted to keep from Quen.

I wasn't ashamed of my job or my fanbase—quite the opposite. My following just tended to get in the way of relationships developing organically. Whether it was boys being asked about their interactions with me or my fans wanting to know everything about my blossoming romances, mixing fame and love just became invasive for all parties involved. They meant well, but it still hurt.

"Really?"

He sounded surprised, disbelieving. I turned my head to look at him, and realised he had been asking me the question instead of Noah. He didn't take his eyes off of mine.

"Quen here doesn't have an Instagram, so don't blame his ignorance." Noah pulled out his phone and shoved the screen in front of Quentin. "Look here."

Quen squinted through the brightness, my familiar feed illuminating the dark room. Noah had already been following me. I kept watching Quen. Watching the way his eyes widened, then softened, then shrank into themselves.

Noah drew his phone back, saying casually, "Probably a good thing you're not on Insta, actually, considering you hate influencers."

What?

Because I was still looking at Quen, I saw the tick in his jaw as it clenched. He wouldn't look at me, or deny what Noah had said. A beat of awkward silence followed, one that probably existed only between Quen and me. Noah looked perfectly relaxed, pleased with himself even.

So it was true. Something stung inside me. I couldn't decide if Noah was the asshole for saying that in front of an influencer, or Quentin was for thinking it. And he didn't even try to deny it.

I needed to get back to the dance floor.

The aroma of hot fries wafted around me, and I knew one of the front of house staff would be emerging at the top of the stairs in about three seconds. I slid gracefully from the booth, towering over the table in my stilettos. Just on time, a young woman placed two serves of fries down. I could use the distraction to exit without it being awkward.

"Enjoy the food, boys. Sober up, Fraser. Nice meeting you, Noah," I farewelled sweetly. That was my brand. Sweet, confident and sassy Krista Ming. But all that sugar and spice fell away when I locked gazes with the tall, dark and handsome man at my side.

I said softly, "See you later, Quen."

He murmured just as faintly, still looking dazed, still holding my eyes hesitantly, "See you later, Krista."

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Riley, Viv and I had smuggled lunch up to floor eight in our reusable lunch boxes.

None of us had woken up in time for breakfast. None of us felt like dressing ourselves to the level of decency required to eat in the dining hall either, so we were eating pre-packed sandwiches in the common room, barefoot and pyjama-ed.

Plus, they were nursing hangovers and the dining room lighting was too stark for them. Even though I had drunk nothing, I also wanted to avoid the crowded dining room because my soul avoided people and presentability wherever possible.

After checking my phone, I saw that both Noah and Fraser had sent me messages apologising for Fraser's behaviour last night. I politely responded to both, and then muted my phone for the afternoon.

Then I said out of nowhere, "Is Quentin a good guy?"

I was squeezed between Riley and Viv on the couch, our three gazes fixed on the TV. I was streaming the Clone Wars. Anyone could try to fight me if they tried to change the show. I turned my face to Riley, to whom I had posed the question, and waited for her to make the connection.

Aside from the time Viv had asked who I was standing outside the Biophysics lecture hall with, I never brought Quen up. I felt like he was something tenuous, uncertain, in my life and throwing his name to my friends to speculate about would rip it to shreds. I liked the soft side I had for him. I didn't want to bare it to the world yet, and invite input, but last night made me curious about many things.

Riley's hungover brain didn't even know who I was talking about. I knew from the deep furrow of Riley's eyebrows, how her eyes flickered as she wracked her memory for people she knew with that name.

"Oh my gosh, you do not!" she exclaimed when she realised. "You do not like him! No way!"

I took another bite of my sandwich. "I might. Depends on if he's a good guy or not."

"He's alright. I don't know him that well," Riley rattled off absent-mindedly, and then levelled an interrogative expression at me, "—but Kris, what the heck? How? Since when? Why?"

"Well, we met in a Biophys lecture. Last night I let him and his friends sober up in Topaz' VIP lounge. I think he's cute. Smart. Funny."

Viv scoffed, "Like that's so rare on campus."

I could see her point of view, I guess. Viv wanted only the best clothes and possessions, and her high standards extended to men. That was why she remained single and unready to mingle. Either the hot ones were assholes, or the sweet ones were bad kissers, or they were gay.

No-one could please her. It wasn't enough that they were cute, smart and funny. She needed someone to bowl her over, and the worst candidate for that was Quentin, whose most magnetic qualities lay under his calm demeanour and laid-back appearance.

I began tentatively, "I don't know how to explain it. I get this vibe from him that no-one else gives me. He seems really respectful and mature. He doesn't look at me like I'm something to fawn over."

Riley was more open-minded than Viv, but she seemed a bit surprised, too. "He's just so not what I pictured for you. But, I've never known anyone to say a bad thing about him, and I know he will stick up for people who need help."

I took a breath, turning over the memory of last night in my head.

I thought I looked my best when I was dressed in miniskirts, neon and sequins, but he didn't seem to like that side of me. On the walk downstairs from the VIP lounge, I had felt inexplicably cold, rubbing my arms to generate heat—even though it was only early fall. I knew I wasn't ugly by any measure, but I had never felt as unattractive as I did when Quentin looked over me with a confused, uncertain manner.

I had asked him if I looked good-different, and said he guessed so.

"He hates influencers," I told Riley and Viv.

"Ouch," Riley hissed. "He said that to your face?"

"Not exactly. His friend told me, and he didn't deny it."

Viv held her manicured index finger in the air. "Red flag. Guys who hate sex workers and influencers have internalised misogyny. They're just mad we're getting this bread."

"I agree with the sex worker one," Riley nodded, "but influencers can be male, too. Maybe his objection to them isn't gendered?"

"It probably is."

"Oh, Viv, what do you know? You've never met him," Riley retorted. "Quen is a really approachable guy. You should ask him yourself, Kris."

"I doubt he even remembers his friend telling me," I reasoned. "They had been drinking last night."

I'd never thought myself sensitive because my skin needed to be tough if I was going to broadcast my life to millions of people. But the thought of Quentin writing me off because of my influence soured all the food I ate, and drained all the adrenaline from the Clone Wars. It was odd.

"Ask him, and if he reeks of sexism, just move on to the next," Viv said bluntly. "He ain't special."

She was wrong there.

When it came to him, I was sensitive.

And when it came to me, he was special.