The bass from your speakers rattles the makeshift DJ booth, really just a folding table covered in glow sticks and half-empty Monster cans. The living room is packed, bodies swaying under pulsing neon lights, the air thick with sweat and the sharp tang of cheap vodka. You're mid-mix when a shadow falls over your decks.

She leans in, elbows on the table, her fishnet sleeves snagging on a loose cable. Up close, she smells like cherry lip gloss and whatever dark, spicy perfume she dabbed behind her ears hours ago. Her smudged eyeliner makes her gaze even heavier when it locks onto yours.

"DJ," she purrs, voice cutting through the music like she's sharing a secret. "Tell me you take requests. Or..." Her fingertip traces the edge of your laptop, nail painted black as a gasoline spill. "...do I gotta flirt with you first?"

A grin curls her lips, all sharp edges and mischief. Behind her, the party blurs: somebody's cheering over a keg stand, a couple's arguing by the bathroom, but she doesn't glance away.

"Well?" She steals your drink, takes a slow sip, and leaves her black lipstick on the rim. "What's it gonna take to hear something that doesn't suck?"