My heart beats so fast and so hard, I think it’s trying to jump out of my body and join Rashid’s, which is knocking just as fervently against my chest. His breath brushes against my face, cooling the beads of sweat on my skin.

“I love you, Wendell,” are the first words out of his mouth once enough oxygen has reached his lungs.

I crack a suspicious eye at him. “You know, post-coital declarations of love don’t count.”

“Suit yourself, Dupree.” Rashid huffs and rolls himself off of me. “Take it or leave it.”

I immediately miss his weight on me and mould myself to his body, crossing my arms on his chest, resting my chin on top.

“I love you, too, Chaudhury.” I place a kiss right above his heart. A small smile curls his lips in response as his arm wraps around my shoulder, and he presses his lips against my forehead. His finger traces down my temple and jawline, lifting my chin to make me look into his eyes.

“Did you enjoy this?”

I raise an eyebrow at him and look pointedly at our midriffs and the mess I successfully managed to distribute evenly between our stomachs.

“What do you think?”

He follows my gaze and chuckles.

“Be right back.” He wiggles out from under me and heads for the bathroom. I flop onto my back and stare at the ceiling with the happiest, goofiest grin possible. Yes, I did enjoy this. A lot. If I could transform into a cat, I’d act like Bruno, curl up on the bed and purr.

My beautiful boyfriend returns with a towel that he soaked in warm water and uses it to clean us both up. Me first because he’s a true gentleman. He finishes up with kissing my navel, flicking his tongue against my skin. Mhmm, maybe we’re not done for the night yet. I wouldn’t mind at all.

“Come back here,” I beg when he gets up to take the towel back into our tiny bathroom. He stops, leans against the doorframe and smiles at me. Not a thread of fabric on him. He is gorgeous. His eyes wander along my body, and his smile definitely broadens. I strike a pose for him, and he laughs.

He picks up the empty condom wrapper and flicks it into the bin in the corner. He must have disposed of the condom itself earlier in the bathroom.

“Will you come back here already?!” My voice has the whiny undertone of a cranky toddler. When he finally joins me on the mattress, I wrap my arms around him and bury my head in his chest, inhaling deeply. I can’t get enough of his smell, especially now when his unique Rashid scent is mixed with mine. And sex. He definitely smells like sex. Amazing sex.

“Did you mind using it?” I ask against his skin in a low voice.

“Not in the least.” He leans his cheek against my forehead. “I love you, and I want you to be safe. And feel safe. I’d do anything to make that happen.”

We stay wrapped up in each other for a while before he continues. “Just for the record: it would have been safe either way. You never asked. I just thought you should know…”

Huh, I guess I really never asked. “I just assumed…”

“You really shouldn’t have. Your life is too precious to risk it. I would have never even touched you if I hadn’t been 100% sure.”

I squirm a little but otherwise ignore his statement that my life is worth a dime. He wouldn’t let me deflect it anyway. Resistance is futile with this one.

“Thank you, Chaudhury. That’s very considerate of you. Unnecessary, I’m sure, but I appreciate it.”

He snorts but doesn’t comment, so I continue: “I mean… I didn’t think you lived abstinently even when you weren’t in a relationship…” This is not a subject we talk about a lot. I don’t want to appear jealous or nosey, so I never ask him about his former lovers. We both have a past. He accepted mine, and I won’t pester him about his. “But I trust you. I know you’re smart, and I’m sure you were always safe.”

He looks at me with an expression I can’t quite decipher. He looks serious, maybe a bit sad, but there is something else. Remorse? “I was, but you can never be too sure. Accidents happen.” He brushes a bit of hair out of my face, then gives me a boyish grin. “But… since we frequent the same immortal physician, and he’s very thorough, you know if he gave both of us a clean bill of health, it means something.”

I laugh and roll over in Rashid’s arms so he can spoon me from behind. I drag his arm around my waist and let our entwined hands rest on my stomach. I’m actually trying to cover up my embarrassment because I remember the night too well, when I tried to impress Rashid with the results of my health check-up with Dr Bhansali. Not my finest hour…

Rashid presses a kiss between my shoulder blades. His thumb rubs against the coarse hair leading from my navel downwards. I close my eyes and enjoy the light breeze of air coming in from the open window and the scents of the city that drift into our little sanctuary. It smells like sun-warmed stone and aged brick mixed with a perfume of roses from the courtyard below.

Rashid’s face is buried deep in my neck.

“I’m going to miss this. Us. You. I’m going to miss you so much.” His voice is almost inaudible, muffled against my skin.

His words take me out of my little moment of serenity. It’s not like him to get quite so emotional about our separation, so I’m a little at a loss here and pat his arm a little awkwardly. “Now, now, Oxford. Don’t get all mushy on me.” I hope he’ll laugh and make a joke, tease me back, but when he doesn’t, I squeeze his hand. “This is only temporary. We’ll see each other again soon. Right?” Soon might be a bit of stretch, but it won’t be forever.

“Of course, it’s only temporary.” Rashid murmurs and tugs me closer to him. “I’ll come back to New Orleans as soon as I can.” He combs his fingers through my hair. “But I can miss my boyfriend until then, can’t I?”

I smile. We’ve been dating for more than a year, and I still smile when he calls me his boyfriend. “I’ll miss you too,” I reassure him and close my eyes again.

I must have dozed off because suddenly a ruckus of birds explodes in front of our window, even though the sun isn’t even up yet. We’re still tangled in the same position, and I try to keep still so I’m not waking Rashid up, but then I realise his breathing is uneven. He’s awake. I rub my hand over his arm, and his fingers catch mine. Definitely awake.

I let go of his hand so I can roll around in his embrace and wrap my arms around his neck. His eyes are open, watching me, deep and dark, like the night sky outside.

“What is it?” I whisper. “Can’t sleep?” and he shakes his head infinitesimally. I kiss his forehead. I still don’t understand where this sudden sadness comes from. Or what this other emotion means. I just know this is one of the last night we have together and the first night we shared something very special. It’s not a night for sadness. And who needs sleep anyway?

I gently push Rashid onto his back and climb on top of him, flashing him my best wicked grin. Then I change my face to a mock-serious expression, place my palm on Rashid’s forehead and act like I’m checking the time on my non-existing wirstwatch.

“Mhmm… acute missing-each-other syndrome,” I say. “Highly contagious. Strict quarantine. This bed. Effective immediately.”

Once I can hear the low rumble of his laughter, I know I’ve succeeded in the first part of my mission. He slaps my ass lightly before he draws me tightly against him.

“You’re impossible, Dupree. I hope you know that.”

“But you love me anyway.”

“Yes, I do. God help me, I do.”

“You’re Muslim.”

“So? Muslims have a God?”

“Yes, but you don’t.”

“Neither do you, but you keep using the name of God’s son when I do this!”

He flips us over and pins me to the mattress.

“Jay-zuhs…”

“See? Quod erat demonstrandum.“

“Oh Jesus Christ, Oxford, stop trying to impress me with whatever language that is. I dropped out of high school before my graduation!”

“It’s Latin, and it means I just proved my point.”

“Fine. You win.”

“Do I get a prize?”

“What do you have in mind?” The wicked grin is so back.

“Tell me you didn’t only bring one condom.”

“The big pack was cheaper.” I shrug, faking innocence before I laugh and reach for the top drawer of my nightstand. When I offer him the wrapper, he shakes his head. I’m confused, and he leans in to whisper in my ear, “Your turn.”

The next morning starts out dull and grey, like Paris is sad this is our last day. But it is the best excuse to start things slow, and it’s almost lunchtime when we emerge from our hotel room in search of food. We find a cute little brasserie with vegan options. Since we established that Rashid isn’t in fact vegan – not even vegetarian – he never misses a chance to make fun of my preferences. At the same time, he always makes sure there’s something on the menu for me. I really should have realised sooner that he’s an omnivore, but I suppose I wasn’t paying too much attention. Too distracted by the fact that this gorgeous specimen was giving me the time of day at all. And even I allow for exceptions to my diet. It’s just a personal choice – nothing doctrinal about it.

While we enjoy a lovely vegan quiche with a green salad, the sun comes out, and the pale pink tassels of the silk tree in front of the restaurant practically glow in the summer light. I just have to snag a photo of it towering over the café’s red and white striped awning before we leave. It looks so beautiful! I immediately set the photo as my phone’s wallpaper to remind myself of this perfect moment.

We spend the rest of the day in Montmartre, which is another amazing Parisian neighbourhood. We visit the cemetery, where we discover the final resting place of Alexandre Dumas. Sacre-Coeur is breathtaking, but I think my favourite part is the spectacular view of Paris from uphill. It’s gorgeous and we decide to have an impromptu picnic on the green besisde the steps leading up to the cathedral. We get a fresh baguette, a tub of houmous, olives, cherry tomatoes, and a paper bag heavy with fruit from a nearby grocery store and just sit on the ground. Of course, Rashid keeps mocking me and telling me not to keel over and hit my head again, conveniently forgetting that it was him who pushed me over. The nerve of this man…

Spoiler alert: I survived. No French ER adventures needed.

While I pack away our leftovers, Rashid wanders off and comes back with two crêpes fraise, handing one of them to me.

“Plant-based batter for my picky eater,” he says with a smirk and kisses my cheek. I poke my tongue out at him while he plonks down on the grass next to me, devouring his strawberry crepe. Afterwards, he tugs me into his side and wraps his arm around me. This is honestly the best way to spend an evening in Paris. Belly full of delicious food, wrapped up in my man, letting his body heat keep me warm. Sighing contently, I lean my head against Rashid’s shoulder while the sun slips behind the horizon. If anyone had told me two years ago – heck, even at the beginning of last year – that my life would turn into this, I wouldn’t have believed them. Definitely one of those ‘someone pinch me now, this can’t be real moments’. I will not make the mistake, though, of voicing this request out loud. Rashid will pinch me, and it will fucking hurt. He will also kiss it to make it better.

Instead I snuggle even closer into him and still receive a kiss pressed to the side of my head. So much better…

The sun is gone, but we’re not ready to leave, so we take a walk downhill and end up in Pigalle in front of the legendary Moulin Rouge. We try to take the perfect selfie with the famous mill, which proves to be quite difficult, and end up asking another tourist to take a picture for us. I think he’ll take just one, then toss my phone back at us, but he goes full-on Henri Cartier-Bresson on us and transforms this into a fashion shoot. I’m loving the results, though.

Afterwards, we find a bar across the square named ‘Dirty Dick’, and my inner pre-teen can’t resist. I need to have a drink from the ‘Dirty Dick’. Inside, we order two Virgin Kir Royales, which taste like summer itself: blackcurrant syrup with non-alcoholic sparkling wine. For the record, Rashid drinks alcohol but moderately and almost never around me. He knows why I avoid it like the plague. The smell of cheap bourbon just makes me gag.

The ‘Dirty Dick’ is an old-fashioned pub, all dark panelling and decades of cigarette smoke embedded in the wood. We find a small table in a corner near one of the windows and sit pressed close together on the bench, our legs and shoulders brushing. Unfortunately this is also when it really hits me that this is our last evening for a very long time. Since Rashid surprised me on my birthday last week, we have been very good at ignoring the giant elephant in the room and the fact that Rashid said he doesn’t know when he’ll be able to see me again. Maybe not before October. That’s four months from now.

I shift the glass in my hands, staring sulkily into the bubbly, deep ruby liquid.

“You look sad,” Rashid remarks after a while, picking up on my silence. I shrug. I don’t really know what to say. I didn’t mean to ruin our last evening together with my funk.

“I know the next months will be hard.” I really wonder sometimes if he can read minds as well as block them. It’s a little unnerving.

“This new assignment… It’s just a really great opportunity for me. I’ve been intrigued with this case for years, and I worked hard to have the kind of clearance to study it…” he trails off.

“I know, Rashid. And I want to be supportive. But…”

“But you hate that it means we won’t see each other for so long?” Rashid finishes the sentence for me. “I know. I hate that, too.”

He takes my hand, where it lies on the table, and gives it a light squeeze. “I’ll call you as often as possible. I’ll be travelling a lot or I’d convince you to come see me in London. My treat.”

He looks at me with a lopsided grin, but I only shake my head. He’s doing enough for me as it is. Of course logically I know it doesn’t make a difference which flight he pays for: his or mine. It just feels different. Rashid presses a kiss to my shoulder.

“But you need to believe me – I want to be with you. That hasn’t changed. If anything, I want it more now than ever.”

I stare down at our linked hands and swallow around the lump forming in my throat.

“Don’t you want that?” Rashid’s thumb rubs the back of my hand, his voice low against the chatter of the bar.

“Of course, I do,” I whisper. I still avoid looking at Rashid. I do want to be with him. That’s never been the issue.

Rashid’s cell phone starts buzzing, and he picks it up from the table between us, frowning slightly.

“I’m sorry, I have to take this.” He says after a moment’s hesitation. I nod. It’s probably work. I take a sip of my drink and watch Rashid leave the bar to answer the call. I wish I had the words to explain to him why letting him go is so difficult for me. Why it’s getting more painful every time I have to do it. Why it’s tearing me apart.

I observe Rashid pacing up and down in front of the large glass windows of the bar. It’s almost a throwback to our first ‘not-yet-a-date-but-maybe’ date at Rosalie’s, where he was called away early after a phone call. I hope it’s not the same this time. It is a bit odd that work calls him at such a late hour.

When Rashid returns to our table, he runs his fingers through his hair, making a little part at the back stand up. He’s clearly upset about something.

“Everything okay with work?” I ask a little nervously.

Rashid looks at me like he’s just been a million miles away. “Yeah, everything’s fine. Why…” he frowns but recovers quickly. “Oh, the phone call? No, that was… no… everything’s fine. Don’t worry.” He squeezes in beside me again and empties his glass in one go. Then it’s his turn to stare broodingly into the distance.

Shit.

We had the perfect day, and now we’re both grumpy. Way to ruin our last night together, Dupree. You couldn’t just keep your foul mood to yourself, for once in your life, could you?

I hang my head and fidget with my hands in my lap. I want to say something – do something – to lighten the mood, but my mind goes completely blank. Sex doesn’t solve everything. Probably also not appropriate here, even in a place called the ‘Dirty Dick’. Before I can come up with an alternative, Rashid faces me and says the world’s most dreadful words.

“Wendell, I think we need to talk…” The way he looks at me tells me it can’t be anything good. I shake my head. No, no, no, no…

“Please… not tonight.”

“Wendell, I need to tell you something and…” I stop his words by pressing my fingers to his lips.

“No, please… whatever it is, it can wait.”

I feel bad enough for ruining our evening with my sullenness, and I can’t bear to hear anything bad. Not tonight…

“Wendell, I really think…” Rashid tries to speak, but I replace my fingers with my mouth.

“It can wait. Please,” I beg him between kisses until he finally, finally, nods, relenting.

“The night is still young, mhmm?” I wiggle my eyebrows at him, grinning. I’m glad I stopped whatever was going on with him and I’m determined to make things lighter again.

“It is,” Rashid studies me pensively, a thumb rubbing along my jawline. “I have an idea. Wait a second.”

He pecks my cheek and gets up to walk over to the bar to pay our tab. I watch him lean over to exchange some words with the cute bartender that served our drinks earlier. I can see the guy knit his brows in concentration, then a bulb seems to light up above his head, and he nods vigorously. He jots something down on a paper napkin, blond mop flopping across his forehead, pink tongue darting out between his lips, before handing the square to Rashid with a wink. That better not be his phone number…

Rashid has his back to me, so I can only see him glancing down at the napkin before pocketing it. When he comes back, he grins and drags me to my feet.

“Come on!” His hand slips into mine as we make our way out of the ‘Dirty Dick’. Rashid holds the door open for me to slip through, but I catch the nod he gives our bartender before following me outside. I want to ask Rashid what that was all about, but I bite back a comment.

We step out into the warm night. Paris is still vibrant even at this late hour. People are milling in the streets, drinking, chatting and laughing outside the many restaurants, bars and cafes lining the street.

“Where are we going?” I ask, and Rashid looks around as if orienting himself, then he declares. “This way!” He slings one arm around my waist and kisses the side of my face before he sets off down the street. Pigalle is a maze of rues and boulevards, but Rashid navigates us through effortlessly and I catch the little smirk tugging at his mouth. My arm finds its way around his waist, and his smile widens. We’re good again, and I’m glad.

After only a few minutes of walking, Rashid stops, looks around and then heads into a dark side alley between a shuttered boutique and a kebab shop, which I probably wouldn’t have chosen on my own. I can feel a faint tingling in my gut, but Rashid’s hand is warm and reassuring against my lower back. As long as he’s here, I’m safe. Nothing bad can happen to me. I’m curious where he is taking us and when I ask, he points at a small neon sign above an inconspicuous-looking door. It’s a glowing arch of colour flickering softly – reds, blues, greens, and golds sliding into each other like light caught in a prism.

When Rashid opens the door, I can hear it. A faint thumping like a heart beating deep inside the building. We step into a foyer – white walls rising to gilded ceilings, a chandelier in the centre and a dark red plush carpet underneath our feet. There’s a small booth selling tickets on the right and a counter with a cloakroom behind on the opposite wall. While I still stare around, open-mouthed, Rashid returns to my side, holding up two perforated paper tickets from a roll.

“Bienvenue au Moulin Arc-en-Ciel,” a young man says, wearing nothing but a pair of golden shorts and a glittery glow covering his fair skin and ribbed torso. He tears off the stub of our tickets before dipping a small marker under a purple LED and pressing it to my wrist – a tiny arc glows under the blacklight. Rashid has taken off his light jacket and is holding out his hand to take mine. My brain is still trying to catch up.

Moulin Arc-en-Ciel? Moulin is mill. Arc en ciel… arch in the sky? An arch… in the sky… my mind wanders back to the neon sign outside and its colours while my eyes take in the attendant in his skimpy little outfit and the vibration of a bass humming through the floor. The moment the dots connect in my brain, I fling myself at Rashid and kiss the living daylights out of him.

“You took us to a gay club,” I say, beaming at him and Rashid couldn’t look more pleased with himself.

“I remembered how much you love dancing. I figured our bartender at the ‘Dirty Dick’ bats for our team, so I asked him for a recommendation.”

Rashid pulls the paper napkin from his pocket and shows it to me. No phone number. Just the name of the club and a clumsily hand-drawn map of where to find it. He curls it into a ball and throws it into a nearby bin.

“You ready?” He asks as he takes my hand. I’ve never been readier in my life.

Despite my passion for dancing, I can count the number of times I’ve been in a club like this on the fingers of one hand. Le Vingt-Trois with Lestat and Louis was my first time. Before that I was either too young or… well, too homeless to go. Rafa has taken me a few times to other clubs in New Orleans since then, mainly when he scouted them out for events. All of them were catering to a more ‘general’ audience. This is different. This is a safe space for the queer community in all its beautiful colours.

We step through a velvet curtain and another door, and that’s when I feel it. The bass.

Distant at first, like a pulse beating beneath our feet. Then stronger. It’s creeping up my legs, the vibration setting my insides on a low, restless hum. My pulse quickens, my feet itching to move. Suddenly I’m the one rushing ahead, dragging a laughing Rashid behind me, down a narrow set of stairs.

It’s dark. The steps are only faintly outlined by thin stripes of neon, and when we round the corner at the bottom, we’re hit by light, heat, and music – all at once.

This is heaven.

Rashid’s arms embrace me from behind while I drink in the sight in front of me. Whereas upstairs looked like the entrance to an old Victorian theatre, the downstairs area is modern, all chrome and glass. The crowd seems to be mostly men, although I also spot a few women and a handful of people who don’t seem to fit neatly into either category – or maybe just don’t want to. The low light makes it hard to tell, and not all of us queer people wear a sign advertising who we are.

“You like it?” Rashid has to shout in my ear for me to hear him over the deafening music, and I can only nod in response, unable to tear my attention away from the writhing bodies on the dancefloor. My heart already beats in sync with the pumping rhythm. Flashing lights and laser beams slice through the fog swirling through the room, flooding my senses. Any sad thought that might still have been lurking in the depths of my mind is driven out.

The place is packed with people, and I instinctively tighten my hold on Rashid’s hand while we make our way deeper into the space. The dance floor sits at the centre, almost a living, breathing thing with bodies. gliding and twirling. It draws me in immediately, the way gravity claims stardust. Before we can reach it, Rashid holds me back.

“You go ahead. I need to take care of something first.”

I look at him over my shoulder, quizzically.

“I’ll just be at the bar for a moment.” He gestures left, toward the long counter lining the wall. “You have fun.” He grins at me and kisses my cheek before nudging me gently towards the dance floor.

I don’t want to leave him, but he gives me another encouraging smile. “I’ll be with you in just a minute. Go!”

He walks away and weaves through the press of people easily, and I can’t stop staring at him. He looks so confident. So at ease. Like the noise, the light and the crowd don’t touch him at all, like he belongs here without needing to prove it to anyone. Just before he reaches the bar, he looks over his shoulder and winks at me.

I can’t stop the huge smile from splitting my face. That man over there – my man – just walked past about a dozen guys, each of them at least 100 degrees hotter than me… and I’m the one he looks at. Winks at. Me.

While I stand transfixed ogling this marvel of a man, he makes a shooing motion and laughs. Dance floor. Right.

I try to squeeze myself in the general direction of the moving mass, but it’s not as easy as it looks. I find a small space at the edge and start to sway my hips tentatively to the rhythm of the song currently booming across the floor. This was significantly easier when Lestat was with me at Le Vingt-Trois. No one was paying me attention with his exuberant presence behind me. I wonder if Rashid saw me dancing with Lestat. When I spotted my Mystery Man and his watchful eyes on me, Lestat had moved on to dance with his husband Louis, but Rashid might have been there longer. He’s Talamasca. He knows how to see without being seen.

My gaze skims over the bar and finds Rashid at the far end of it, leaning across the counter, talking to another bartender. This one looks like he’s stepped straight out of a Gaultier ad – a little white sailor’s cap perched on his head, shorts, and not much else, except for the canvas of tattoos covering his chest and shoulders: flowers, birds, and butterflies. A dragon coils around his biceps, wings and tail seeming to move every time he flexes his arm. He pushes a bottle towards Rashid, who takes it and leans his back against the bar. When his eyes find mine, he grins and lifts the bottle, pointing at the label. It’s dark, but I can still make out the fruit on it. It’s mango juice. I laugh and shake my head. Nothing makes my man happier than mango juice.

I’m slowly getting into the groove of things, my moves getting a little bolder, and I let my eyes drift over the other dancers around me. Men in all shapes and sizes, in various stages of undress. Some are dancing solo, some with a partner, grinding their hips together, or sandwiched between two guys. Clusters of friends simply goofing around. It’s fun watching them. And there are some seriously hot dudes among them. But the hottest one is still the man at the bar sipping his mango juice. Was that really the business he had to take care of? He’s ridiculous, and I love him for it.

I’m starting to feel a little sweaty; being sardined in between all these other bodies radiating heat will do that to you. Because I don’t want to take my shirt off, I just grab the hem, twist a knot in it, and roll it up, exposing a sliver of my stomach. When I spot a bit of space, I take the chance and edge closer to the centre of the dance floor, making sure I’m still within Rashid’s view. I don’t recognise the song playing, but it’s got good rhythm. I close my eyes, and let the music take over. Thinking becomes optional. My mind clears, and I let the beat control my body.

Fingers brush against the bare skin of my stomach. I smile and lean back to mould my back against Rashid, who’s finally come to join me. I place one of my hands on his, keeping it in place, loving the feeling of his touch. I open my eyes slowly and let my gaze sift lazily around the room until they find… Rashid. He is perched on a barstool, leaning back, elbows resting on the bar. His attention is somewhere else, but he seems relaxed, head bobbing to the music.

I look down in horror at the fingers entwined with mine where they rest against my middle. Fingers that glow in a soft olive-golden tone under the strobe lights. My body stiffens, and it takes me a moment before I can form a clear thought: This is not Rashid.

Before the familiar panic sets in, I swivel around and instinctively put a hand up. The guy behind me is around my age, maybe a little younger. His dark hair is cropped short, and his eyes – hazel, maybe green – flare bright under the flashing lights. His smile is warm, and he takes a small step back immediately, removing his hand. I’m unsure what to do. He doesn’t look threatening. He leans forward slightly, and his breath tickles my skin.

“Karim,” he says, pointing at himself.

“Wendell,” I reply reflexively. I should tell him I’m not alone here, that I’m not available. “Ahm, je suis…” Shit. What does ‘taken’ mean in French? Occupé? Or does that only apply to restroom stalls?

Then I remember the word for boyfriend, and I’ve never been happier that I looked it up on the way to Paris.

“Copain…” I add, waving a hand between me and Rashid at the bar, hoping the gesture does the rest of the work.

Karim follows the way I’m pointing and looks a little regretful: “Ah, dommage.” Then he gives me a quick once-over and adds, pointing towards Rashid: “Juste danser, d’accord?”

I think he asks me if we can dance – only dance – and I steal a glance at him in return. He laughs and spins around in a circle. John Travolta has nothing on this guy, and it makes me giggle. A look back confirms Rashid is watching us but seems completely unfazed, so I nod at Karim.

“Okay.”

I’m still a little nervous that Rashid might misinterpret my little routine with Karim, but my new friend keeps his distance and doesn’t try to touch me again. We’re a good match; his movements are soft and smooth, complementing mine. I can feel myself relax again and enjoy the moment.

The DJ bridges into the next song, and I bounce on my heels. It’s one of my favourites. As Rihanna’s sultry voice fills the room and a new wave of dry ice floods the dancefloor, I spin around to find the one I’ve been searching for all my life. The moment my eyes lock with Rashid’s, everything else dissolves; Karim fades into the blur at my edges.

My hips roll in ever-widening circles as I bring my hands together in front of me and slowly lift my arms. The song picks up, and my moves quicken. I’m drowning in its pulse and Rashid’s eyes. They’re all I can see.

Where have you been all my life?

Every move is for him. Only him.

I’ve been everywhere, man
Looking for someone

His smile breaks wide, and that’s all the encouragement I need.

Someone who can please me
Love me all night long

The beat drops, and something inside me snaps loose. My body answers before my mind can catch up. I don’t think anymore – I just move. The music pulls me under, carries me. The bass owns me, thudding deep and low inside my core. There’s nothing else. Just sound and heat and motion.

Are you hiding from me, yeah?
Somewhere in the crowd

For these few perfect minutes, the world is music – and I am exactly where I’m meant to be. Rashid is my compass point, my centre, the place where I belong.

You can have me all you want
Any way, any day
Just show me where you are tonight

I mouth the lyrics shamelessly, pointing at him, dragging my thumb across my lower lip, grinning when I catch his eye again.

The song bleeds out, the last echo dissolving into the next track, and I finally slow, chest heaving, skin buzzing. It feels like surfacing after being held under too long. A hand brushes against my shoulder, and I find Karim behind me giving me two thumbs up before disappearing into the crowd. I smile to myself, still half-dreaming, and turn to look for Rashid.

He’s not at the bar.

For a moment my stomach drops. Then I spot him near the entrance, half-lost in shadow. Someone is with him, a man I can’t quite see, partially hidden behind one of the pillars that hold up the ceiling. Something is wrong. Rashid’s body language is all wrong. His shoulders are rigid, and one hand slices through the air as he speaks.

The afterglow drains out of me. What happened? Who is that man? I tell myself I’m misreading it, that this is nothing, that clubs are loud and conversations get animated.

Then Rashid looks up and sees me.

He says something final to the man – I see the brief, unmistakable shake of his head – and then he starts walking toward me, leaving the pillar, the stranger, and whatever that moment was behind him. He doesn’t stop before he’s standing right in front of me, the quiet in the storm, in the sea of moving bodies around us.

“Hey,” he says, close to my ear, his voice almost lost to the music.

I want to ask him who the man was and what his argument was all about, but Rashid’s hands find my waist and pull me flush against him. I laugh a little breathlessly as his touch ignites fireworks across my skin. One of his legs wedges between my thighs, and we start moving together.

The lights flare, blue and violet washing over his face, and for a moment it’s just us in the middle of everything. His forehead brushes mine, his smile soft and unapologetic, and this is all that matters. Karim, the stranger, they all fade into nothing.

Rashid’s fingers cup my chin and pulls my face close to his.

“Damn, girl.”

He makes me giggle when I realise he’s lip-syncing the new song. Then he leans forward, and his breath leaves a trail of goosebumps on my skin.

“You’s a sexy beast.”

Laughter bubbles up inside of me, and his lips find mine.