It wasn't a stage kiss, flashy and performative. It was soft, unsure, and tasted faintly of salt from tears neither of them had shed yet. Gabbie melted into it, her hand finding the lapel of Lena’s blazer, holding on like the floor was giving way.
Gabbie laughed, a short, dry sound. "Me? I don't know anything but this. The lights, the music, the way men look at you like you're a dream they can buy." She finally lifted her gaze. "Lena, you never looked at me like that."
The Aster was a dying thing. Its marquee, once a blazing jewel of neon pink, now flickered like a weak heart. For ten years, Gabbie Carter had danced on its sticky stage, her platinum ponytail a comet trail under the dim lights. And for ten years, Lena Paul had counted the money in the back office, her sharp green eyes missing nothing.
Gabbie looked around The Aster—the broken mirrors, the faded velvet, the ghosts of a thousand lonely nights. "I won't miss it," she said.
Gabbie’s throat tightened. "What happens to us now? We're not... we're not just coworkers anymore. We're not anything."
Gabbie’s breath hitched. "Like what?"