There's two women that stand above the crowd. One's in the classic little black dress, but her long hair is dyed a striking pink. It's a bold look, perhaps too bold, but she doesn't seem to care. And standing next to her is one of the taller women here. Black slacks, shoulder length black hair slicked back, sleeves of her shirt rolled up.

They’re the two that catch Yooa’s attention first, tall and imposing above some of the shorter crowd. But it’s the woman they’re talking to that really grabs her attention, snatches her gaze away. Dark red hair cascades down the woman’s back, falling behind shoulders bared by a closely fit crop top. And those legs, those are dancer’s legs, shown off by a pair of tight black shorts.

“Need another drink? You’re looking very thirsty, Yooa – “ Jiho teases, playing with her glass.

“Ah, seriously, they’re so good looking though,” she replies, not even bothering to hide what she’s doing. Of course she’s staring. It’s a club. You’re either dancing, drinking, or watching.

“All of them? Or do you mean the one with red hair? Hyejeong’s got pink hair, Seolhyun’s the one in the shirt, Chanmi is the shorter one.”

“Ooh, you player.”

“No, I…was just in the queue behind them getting in.” She can’t actually see Jiho blush in the kaleidoscopic lighting of the club, but her friend definitely looks a little embarrassed. Which is interesting, because Jiho can be hard to fluster.

The shorter one amongst the three – that must be Chanmi – turns around, and for a moment she catches Yooa's gaze. There’s a quick flick up and down at her, a smirk, a smile. Someone doesn’t mind the attention. There’s something in the way she holds her gaze on Yooa as she steps towards the dance floor – Yooa has an idea of what’s about to happen. But that didn’t mean she was prepared for what she was about to see.

Chanmi struts onto the dance floor, not caring who’s in her way, who’s watching. And she moves, she dances, no, she commands attention through her sheer presence. Yooa swears she saw her with a vodka mixer before, but whatever alcohol she's had does not seem to have affected her dancing at all. Fast, wild, free, and yet controlled at the same time. Agile in the way she shifts from foot to foot, powerful in the way she lands on the beat.

Yooa doesn’t look away as she leaves her drink with Jiho, moves onto the floor. Closer to the sounds, to the movement, she lets the energy of the room wash over her. Feel her muscles stretch after sitting on that barstool for too long. It's that gaze that pulls her in, that makes her take a step towards her. Slip by the guy who’s pretending to dance with her, push past the two drunk girls swaying out of time, until she's right in front of Chanmi.

And she does what she does best. Dance. There's the wild movement of someone who's had too much to drink, the jumping of a girl with sugar and more in her veins, the shuffle of a guy thinking more about what he sees than his movements. Then there's those like Yooa who know how to really move. Someone could say she’s too precise, too clean, but that’s the thing when you dance for a living. You don’t turn that part of your brain off, you don’t forget how to move. Even when you give in to the beat, let the music guide you instead of some memorised pattern – you’re always moving like you know. Sometimes you dance for yourself, sliding across those polished wooden floors for the audience of mirrors. Sometimes you dance for the crowd, for the cheers and cameras. Tonight she’s surrounded by people, but she knows she’s dancing for one. She thought it was her competitive side, the one that doesn’t want to lose. But when the song finishes and Chanmi looks right at her – she realises, sure, Chanmi’s showing off. Chanmi’s showing off to her.

And that thought stays with her as the music builds once again. She steps in closer – she doesn’t just want to watch the show any more. She wants to be a part of it. Hands hold her hips, and things get very blurry after that. She remembers sensations - bare skin on her fingertips, pressure on her hips as Chanmi’s presses against it. The smell of alcohol on breath. The sugar taste of a cocktail on her lips - but she had something strawberry, not lemon - so this is someone else's -

And then lips are on her lips and she's back in the present. Hands on hips push her into this corner, her hands grab onto thighs. And then comes the rush. She knows the rush of a good workout. She knows the rush of performing on a stage, of being the one that everyone's look at in awe. This rush is different. This comes from knowing that you're the only one someone's looking at. That someone's wanting. A little bit of fear to put you on the edge, that you don't want to disappoint. A little bit of arrogance cause they only want you.

The exit from the club, the trip to an apartment – she must have got there somehow, but she can only remember two things. One, Jiho’s raised eyebrow as she leaves with Chanmi’s arm around her waist, and two, that they couldn’t keep their hands off each other in the elevator up. They don’t bother with the lights once they get there – really all that matters is that there’s a bed with enough space. A push on her chest and she’s sitting down –

“Stay right there,” Chanmi says, voice low and dangerous.

And she strips. Starting with her top, casually tossed aside, bra soon following. Those shorts take a little longer as Chanmi takes the time to tease with her fit , swaying from side to side, sliding her hands along those legs. God, those legs. Finally Chanmi drops it all, standing bare in front of her with a smirk that says she knows exactly how y how she is, how much Yooa wants her. Then she leaps for Yooa, locking her in a kiss

She doesn’t want to be shown up. Not in the practice room, not in the club, not here either. So Yooa pushes back into the kiss, grabs Chanmi’s arm, and as they break she has some whispered words for her.

“My turn.”

In one motion she twists her body so that she’s on top, then pushes Chanmi down. She stands tall, strikes a pose with a smile. Then she reaches for the neck of her crop top and tears, the thin fabric easily coming apart. And she dances, she sways, she parades the body she’s worked so hard for – because when you have it, you should use it, enjoy it. Share it with someone who’ll appreciate it. Look at me, is the one thought on her mind. All the compliments and comments, all the praise for “good proportions” and “slender body”, none of it compares to Chanmi’s hungry gaze on her and watching her her lips. Yooa hooks her thumbs into the waist of her pants, rolling her body before she drops the last of her clothes to the floor.

///

Yooa rolls over, looks up at the ceiling where bars of light are shining through gaps in the blinds. Her head is sore from a hangover, the rest of her body is sore for a different reason. She reaches for her phone and sees a barrage of notifications from one Kim Jiho, which she responds to with a message saying she’s fine and in one piece. And the most smug cat sticker she can find, because why not.

Last night’s mess is makeup stains on the pillow and scattered clothes she’s too tired to bend down and pick up, so she takes a sweater off the back of a chair and heads in the direction of the smell of cooking. Chanmi’s at the stove, stirring a pot of something. Seeing her like this – barefaced in an oversized sweater, no longer beside two older women – Yooa suddenly realises that Chanmi looks young. Young enough to be close to her age.  

The smile she gets for a greeting is warm, a little shy. The wink she gets, well, that tells another story.

“Wanna dance later?”

“Of course.”