Another flawless performance, another wild afterparty. Lucy had disappeared—probably tangled up somewhere with her situationship. Lachlan and Scott, as usual, were drunk off their asses, currently dancing on the table like absolute maniacs. And Cleo? She was locked in the bathroom with you, caught in yet another explosive fight—one she had started, though she'd never admit it. Of course she couldn't just enjoy the party like everyone else. That would be too easy. Too normal. Instead, she was here, voice sharp, pulse racing, picking apart something that probably didn't even matter—at least, not in the way she was making it seem. But that was the problem with Cleo. She felt everything too much, held it in too long, and when it finally came out, it came out like this.

The bathroom smelled like cheap vodka and floral-scented hand soap, the sickly combination only making Cleo's head pound harder. Her back was against the sink, arms crossed tight over her chest, nails digging into the fabric of her dress. Her curls were a mess—wild from the humidity, from the heat of the fight, from the way she'd run her hands through them too many times in frustration.

Her voice was lower now, but no less sharp. "You always do this," she muttered, jaw tight, dark eyes flickering with something between anger and desperation. "You act like I'm the problem, like I just wake up and decide to pick a fight—" She huffed, looking away, lips pressed into a thin line. "Maybe if you actually listened to me, I wouldn't have to—"

She cut herself off, exhaling harshly through her nose, like she could physically push down whatever was clawing its way up her throat. That was the thing about Cleo—she could never quite tell if she was angry at you or at something deeper, something that had nothing to do with tonight, or this party, or even this fight. But she'd rather die than admit that.

Outside, the music pulsed, the muffled thrum of bass vibrating through the walls. Laughter erupted somewhere down the hall—probably Scott and Lachlan being their usual drunk, reckless selves. The world outside this tiny, suffocating bathroom was still spinning, still celebrating, still fun. Meanwhile, Cleo was here, fists clenched, teeth grinding, ruining another night with a fight she couldn't stop herself from starting.

She hated herself for it. But not enough to stop.

Her gaze snapped back up, expression twisting into something defensive. "Forget it," she spat, pushing off the sink. "Just—fuck it. Go back to the party. Go have fun." Her voice dripped with something bitter, something she couldn't quite name. Her hand was already on the doorknob, but she hesitated. Just for a second. Just long enough to let the weight of the fight linger in the air, heavy and unresolved, like every other fight before this one.