The rain pelted relentlessly off the top of Violet's head. It was a terrible day to have to walk home. The water puddled up in huge pools along the poorly-kept neighborhood sidewalks, soaking her jeans each time she was forced to step in one. She found herself staring wistfully at the cars going by. Hoping impossibly that she would recognize someone, or be recognized, and offered a lift back to her crummy, off-campus apartment.

She'd missed the bus by five minutes. Four minutes and thirty-three seconds, if she was being exact, and she knew exactly where those four minutes had gone. But if she hadn't caught Professor Wilkins as he left his office, she would never have secured the extension on her criminology paper. She needed that extension. She needed these credits to move forward with her degree. Criminal Justice had seemed like a sure thing when she was signing up last May, but now she wasn't so sure. It was only October and she was already drowning in papers, required reading, and syllabuses as long as her arm, filled with names and concepts she'd never heard before.

Liking detective stories did not prepare her for college.

Violet arrived back at her flat soggy, wet, and in the mood for a warm bath. She peeled her wet jeans and top off, and put on a pair of joggers and a hoodie, venturing out into the kitchen to make a mug of hot chocolate or something else sufficiently warming.

"Violet!" A voice spun her round from her precise ritual of 30g cocoa powder to 1tsp cinnamon and 250ml milk.

"Carys, you scared me."

"Did you get caught out there?" Carys asked, gesturing towards Violet's sopping hair. "You could've called me. I would've given you a lift." She grinned her perfect smile, slinging a purple fur-lined denim coat over the kitchen chair across from Violet.

Carys Barker was fine, Violet guessed. Rich, but not bitchy, taking an economics degree that she would almost certainly be failing without daddy's money. Violet would be lying if she said she wouldn't have appreciated a ride in Carys' shiny white BMW. Like Carys would ever drive that thing out in a rainstorm.

Violet wrapped her hands around the warm mug, letting the steam fog her glasses. Carys watched her with that look: the one that meant she was about to propose something she thought Violet would say no to. Last time, it was trying to paint her room pink, with the plan to paint it all white again before they had to move out. Violet needed that deposit back too bad to acquiese.

“So,” Carys said, leaning her elbows on the counter, “I was thinking…”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.” Carys grinned wider. “Come out with me tonight.”

Violet blinked. “Carys, it’s Thursday. And I look like a drowned cat.”

“You look fine,” Carys said, waving a hand. “And it’s student night at The Neon. Two‑for‑one cocktails, a couple fitties. It’ll be fun.”

“I have a paper due.”

“You have an extension,” Carys countered, plucking the mug from Violet’s hands and sniffing it like she was judging the cocoa-to-cinnamon ratio. “And you’ve been miserable all week. You need a break.” She cracked open the fridge and started to snack on an opened bag of shredded cheese that Violet was certain belonged to her.

She opened her mouth to argue, but the warmth of the kitchen, the softness of her hoodie, and the lingering ache of the long walk home all conspired against her. Maybe she did need a night off. Maybe she needed to feel like a person instead of a stressed-out academic gremlin.

Carys saw the hesitation and pounced. “I’ll even do your eyeliner. You can use my makeup.”

Violet sighed, long and theatrical. “Fine. But if the music is awful, I’m blaming you.”

“It’s always awful,” Carys said brightly. “That’s half the charm. You've just got to get drunk enough to ignore it.”

The Neon was exactly the kind of place Violet usually avoided: fluorsecent lights flickering like they were powered by spite, bass thumping through the floorboards, and a crowd that smelled faintly of cheap perfume and cheaper decisions. But with Carys tugging her through the entrance, Violet felt… oddly alive.

Maybe it was the eyeliner. Maybe it was the fact that she hadn’t thought about criminology for a whole hour. Maybe it was the way the rain had finally stopped, leaving the night washed clean.

Carys dragged her to the bar, ordered something bright and fruity, and shoved it into Violet’s hand.

“To being young and irresponsible,” Carys declared.

Violet clinked her glass against hers. “To regretting this tomorrow.”

They danced, though it took a few songs, and even more drinks to convince Violet to join in. Eventually, she found herself laughing as Carys spun her around to a remix so aggressively electronic it felt like being attacked by her mum's old radio that was more static than BBC One. For once, Violet didn’t care how she looked. She didn’t care about deadlines or readings or the fact that her socks were still damp from earlier.

She was just having fun. It surprised her how easy it was.

It wasn’t until later, after another drink, after another round of dancing, after Carys disappeared to chat with someone she vaguely recognized from her economics course, that Violet felt something shift. Her vision blurred at the edges, colours smearing like wet paint. The room tilted, then righted itself, then tilted again. Her heartbeat thudded unevenly, too slow, then too fast. She blinked hard, trying to focus on the bar, the lights, the people.

Everything felt distant. Like she was underwater again, but this time without the rain. She gripped the edge of a table, knuckles white. Someone brushed past her, and she tried to turn, tried to speak, but her tongue felt thick, her thoughts slipping like sand through her fingers.

"Woah, hey. Easy there." A strong pair of arms caught her, and she saw the eyes -- dark as anything, set into a pale face, smattered with freckles. "You alright?"

And she was led aside.