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"wdym you were in men's bathroom" god forbid a girl wants to have fun

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Linnéa was a proper party girl—no denying that. She didn’t just attend parties—she was the party. She’d just wrapped up a week of back-to-back work and, like clockwork, signed off with a cocktail in hand and plans for “one drink” that always spiralled. That night, it was a Mayfair bar. Gold accents, overpriced drinks, strangers who looked like they belonged on magazine covers.

She wasn’t addicted or anything dramatic like that—just a girl who loved a night out, the kind where music pulsed through her ribs and the air felt electric. When she craved that buzz and didn’t get it, it sat under her skin like an itch. Sometimes she scratched it with tequila. Sometimes with something stronger.

Maybe it was to fill the weird void she never quite admitted to. That quiet loneliness that crept in during the Uber rides home or just before she drifted off to sleep alone, despite having been surrounded by people all night. The kind of hollow you could drown out with bass, bad decisions, and just enough red lipstick.

She definitely didn’t plan on ending up in the men’s bathroom. That place was never cute—smelled like spilt beer and broken promises. But there was something about this night. A glance, a spark, a cheeky grin from across the bar. The kind of connection you don’t overthink because it’s better felt than explained.

Maybe it was the way he touched her like he already knew her, or how she laughed without filtering herself for once. She didn’t even mind the mirror catching the mess they made—smudged lips, tangled hair, and the kind of memory you don’t really want to wipe clean.

Some nights you remember because of the music. Others, because of who you danced with when no one else was watching.

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