The place had string lights and low music — just enough to feel lively without demanding effort. Clara already had a colorful drink in hand, while Amelia stirred her juice straw like it was an editing project.
"You know that juice isn't going to save your life, right?" Clara said, flashing a provocative smile.
Amelia laughed.
"I'm not trying to be saved. Just staying hydrated."
"Hydration's great. But you need alcohol. You need to loosen up."
Amelia shook her head, amused.
"I'm fine with juice. And with my sanity intact. You talk like an expert."
"I am. Sanity's overrated. You need a boyfriend. Or several. It's good for the skin."
"Is that advice or a warning?"
Clara took a sip and leaned over the table.
"It's an invitation. You need to stop being so uptight, Amelia. Seriously. A boyfriend. Or two. Or just someone to remind you you still have skin."
Amelia looked at her glass, thoughtful.
"I'm not uptight. Just… selective. You can't go around grabbing just anyone."
"Yes, you can! You're way too selective. You live like you're always in post-production. Cutting scenes, adjusting sound, deleting what doesn't fit."
Amelia smiled, but her gaze drifted.
"Sometimes it's easier to edit than to show everything."
Clara caught the shift and softened.
"Okay. But tonight's not for editing. Tonight's for behind-the-scenes. And you deserve to have fun."
Amelia looked around. Couples at nearby tables, loose laughter, people who seemed light.
She picked up her phone, unlocked the screen. No new messages.
But the conversation with Thomas was still there, like a tab she didn't want to close.
"I don't know if I want someone new."
Clara touched her hand gently.
"Then start there. But don't shut the door. Sometimes what walks in uninvited is what changes everything."
Amelia smiled. Small, but real.
Maybe she wasn't ready for a boyfriend. But maybe she was ready to stop hiding.
Clara finished her drink, tapped the empty glass on the table with a mischievous grin, and stood up suddenly.
"Wanna see how it's done?" she said, already heading toward the bar.
Amelia didn't even have time to answer. She just watched as Clara approached some random guy — backwards cap, shirt too open, clearly not from the Communications department.
Clara leaned in, said something Amelia couldn't hear, and within a minute, she was dancing. No proper music, no context. Just her, the guy, and a confidence that didn't ask for permission.
Amelia laughed. First quietly. Then louder.
"That girl has a boyfriend," she muttered, still smiling, like watching a controlled fire.
The guy looked surprised, but didn't complain. Clara spun, pulled, laughed out loud. And then, without warning, kissed him. Fast. Direct. Like marking territory just to prove she could.
Amelia covered her face with her hand, still laughing.
"She's gonna make me a witness to something."
Clara came back a few minutes later, like nothing had happened. Sat down, grabbed her phone, and opened Instagram.
"There. Now you can say you went out with someone who knows how to live."
Amelia looked at her, still half in disbelief.
"You kissed a random guy at the bar."
"And you drank juice. We all have our vices."
The bar was starting to fill up. The string lights blinked slowly, and the music seemed to get louder, like the place was waking up.
Amelia was still stirring her juice straw when Rafa showed up.
No warning. No invitation.
He just pulled out a chair and sat down like he owned the place — like the table had always been his.
"Evening, ladies," he said, with that smile that looked rehearsed in the mirror.
Clara froze for half a second. Then smiled. Slow. Almost feline.
"Evening… you," she replied, scanning Rafa like he was an unexpected gift.
Amelia straightened up, her body tense. The juice didn't feel refreshing anymore.
"Rafa," she said, without enthusiasm.
"Amelia," he replied, savoring the name. "What a nice coincidence."
Clara looked at Amelia, then at Rafa, then back at Amelia. And then gave her that classic "go for it" look — raised eyebrow, sly smile, the kind that says "if you don't want him, I do."
"You two know each other?" Clara asked, feigning innocence.
"Work," Amelia said, too quickly.
"Creative collaboration," Rafa corrected, with a tone that made it sound far more intimate than it should.
Amelia gripped her glass tighter.
"It was just a project."
"A project that delivered," he said, locking eyes with her. "You've got talent. And presence. Hard to forget."
Clara nearly sighed.
Amelia looked away, uncomfortable.
"I just do my job."
"And you do it well," Rafa said, leaning in slightly. "Actually, there's something new coming up. I'll send you the details later."
Amelia nodded, but didn't smile.
Clara, meanwhile, looked hypnotized.
"You work with video too?" she asked, trying to keep the conversation going.
"Production, directing, post. A bit of everything. But what I really like is working with people who show up and deliver," he said, glancing at Amelia again.
She took a deep breath.
"Clara, I think I'll get another juice."
"Make it two," Clara said, eyes still on Rafa.
Amelia stood up, but before walking away, she glanced at Rafa.
He smiled.
And she felt that old discomfort rise in her stomach — like being filmed without knowing.
Amelia walked to the counter with short steps, trying to look busy. She ordered another juice but took her time choosing the flavor — as if the pause between question and answer could protect her from going back to the table.
While she waited, she glanced sideways at Rafa. He was talking to Clara now, gesturing with charm, like he was on set and knew the camera was on him.
Clara laughed. Played with her hair. Crossed her legs slowly. Amelia sighed.
The server handed her the juice, and she returned to the table holding the cup like a shield.
"Here," she said, handing Clara the second juice.
"You're an angel," Clara replied, eyes still locked on Rafa.
"And you're easy," Amelia muttered, just to herself.
Rafa turned toward her, as if he'd heard.
Amelia gripped the cup again.
Clara looked at the two of them, like someone watching a game she didn't understand but wanted to join.
"You two have a vibe. Like… good tension."
Amelia laughed, but without humor.
Clara giggled, thinking it was a joke.
"Are you like exes who still hook up?"
Amelia choked on her juice.
"Clara."
"What? I'm just asking. The vibe's strong."
Rafa laughed, slow.
"We were never exes. Just… scene partners. Intense ones."
Amelia looked at him, dry.
"Scene isn't real life."
"Sometimes it's more real than life," he replied, without blinking.
Clara looked between them, fascinated.
"Okay, now I really want to know… did you two ever hook up?"
Amelia let out a short, nervous laugh.
"No."
Rafa tilted his head, savoring the tension.
"We've shared scenes. That's more intimate than kissing."
Clara's eyes widened.
"Scenes?"
Amelia answered too quickly.
"Work. That's all."
Rafa kept going, with that tone that always seemed to want more than the moment allowed.
"She has a presence you can't fake. When she steps into character… no one looks away."
Amelia tightened her grip on the cup, uncomfortable.
"That has nothing to do with now."
"It has everything to do with now," he said, still steady. "Because even here, you carry it. Even when you try to hide."
Clara looked at Amelia, curious.
"Hide what?"
Amelia stood up, body tense.
"I'm going to the bathroom."
Clara reached for her arm, but Amelia was already walking away.
Rafa watched her go, wearing that unapologetic smile.
Clara, still enchanted, turned to him.
"You talk like she's someone else."
Rafa took a sip of his drink.
"Sometimes, she is."
Amelia was still standing, about to walk away from the table, when Rafa stood up too — fast, deliberate.
"You're not leaving like that," he said, with that mix of charm and command.
She frowned.
"Rafa, no."
But he'd already extended his hand, like the bar was a stage and she was the only possible partner.
"Just one dance. Nothing dramatic."
Clara, still seated, widened her eyes and smiled like she was watching a live reality show.
"Go on, girl. One dance won't kill you."
Amelia hesitated. The bar didn't have a dance floor, just a space between tables where a few couples moved slowly, swaying to music that barely had rhythm. But Rafa didn't seem to need music. He seemed to create his own.
She placed her hand in his — more reflex than choice. And he pulled her in with confidence. Not aggressive, but with the kind of certainty she knew too well.
Her body tried to resist, but his already led. Firm hands on her waist, steady gaze, slow and deliberate movements.
"You remember how it goes," he said, too close.
"This isn't a scene," Amelia replied, trying to keep her voice steady.
"It doesn't have to be. The body remembers on its own."
She wanted to pull away. Wanted to say this was invasive, that he couldn't just show up and take space. But her body remembered. And memory is treacherous.
The dance wasn't soft. It was marked. Almost wild. Like every step was a provocation, every turn a reminder of what she tried to forget. It wasn't about music. It was about control. About chemistry. About what had already been recorded and couldn't be erased.
Clara watched from a distance, enchanted.
Amelia felt the heat rise up her neck. It wasn't embarrassment. It was something more dangerous: familiarity.
Rafa smiled, like someone who knew he'd won a silent battle.
"See? You still know."
She stopped dancing, pulling back firmly.
"Knowing doesn't mean wanting."
He raised his hands, like he accepted the pause — but not the defeat.
"But wanting… sometimes comes later."
Amelia returned to the table, heart racing. Clara looked at her with a sparkle in her eyes.
"That was… intense."
Amelia grabbed her juice and drank it all at once.
"It was just muscle memory."
But she knew it wasn't just that.
It was the kind of chemistry that didn't ask for permission. And one she didn't want to repeat — but couldn't quite erase.