Before War

Life was fun, Caitlin thought.

Not perfect—never perfect—but bright in the way city lights reflected off wet pavement at midnight, in the way music could crawl under your skin and rearrange your heartbeat. New York had done that to her. Six months in, and it already felt like a promise she hadn’t finished opening.

The club pulsed like a living thing.

Bass rolled through the floor, up her calves, into her ribs. Lights fractured across the ceiling—violet, gold, electric blue—glittering against bodies that moved without apology. Caitlin laughed, head tipped back, one hand lifted as the DJ dropped their favorite track like a gift meant just for them.

Caitlin wore the mini dress she’d found on sale at Macy’s—short, unapologetic, bright colored. Stiletto heels gave her borrowed height and confidence she didn’t strictly need but enjoyed anyway. Glitter caught at the corners of her eyes; her makeup shimmered under the lights. She loved sparkle. Loved light. Loved music loud enough to erase doubt.

Her girlfriends circled her, arms raised, hair flying, laughter spilling freely. Drinks appeared in their hands—paid for by themselves, always. Caitlin liked that. She worked hard. She bought her own drinks. Independence tasted better than anything sweet.

“Six months!” someone shouted over the music.

“Six months and we’re not leaving!” Caitlin yelled back, grinning.

They had moved here together—her and her best friend, her roommate, her accidental soulmate in adulthood. Two girls with shared rent, shared closets, shared dreams that were still vague enough to feel possible. The job wasn’t glamorous—a position at a social media company that paid just enough—but it was steady. It was hers.

Bills were split. Groceries negotiated. Fights forgotten by morning.

Life, for now, worked.

Caitlin danced like tomorrow was optional.

There were four of them—five, if you counted how nights in New York always collected strays. Caitlin. Her roommate and best friend Sophia, who knew her moods better than she knew her own. A childhood friend named Anna, who had arrived in the city with her mother, chasing a future in ballet with the kind of devotion that hurt to watch.

And another girl—friend of the ballerina—temporary at first, then folded into the group the way New York folded people together when rent was high and hearts were open.

They were young.

They were careful.

They were happy, despite the challenges of being young girls with too little money in an unforgivingly expensive city.

Life was full in the way that mattered. Full of movement and promise and laughter that came without effort. Six months in New York, and the city still felt like something she was allowed to love loudly.

They did everything.

Rooftops at sunset, nursing a single shared glass of champagne because it was all they could afford, passing it between them like a ritual. Clubs they entered for free because they were polite, charming, and knew the bouncers by name. Nights that dissolved into dancing, sweat, glitter, and music so loud it drowned out worry.

They danced until dawn.

They laughed until their faces hurt.

They woke the next morning eating greasy food, swearing they would never drink again—only to forget the vow by midweek, when the memories softened and the joy remained.

They had rules.

No kissing strangers.

No accepting opened drinks.

No going home with anyone—no matter how cute.

No drugs.

They liked being healthy. They liked being safe. They liked being together.

And even though they tried—dates here, introductions there—they never quite met the right guy. So instead, they danced. They let music and motion turn money problems into distant noise. They lived lightly, deliberately, as if joy itself were an act of rebellion.

That night, the club was electric.

They were dancing when a man touched her roommate’s shoulder.

He didn’t grab. Didn’t linger. Just pointed—politely—to a raised table across the room.

Four men stood there, about their age, drinks in hand. They weren’t loud. They weren’t sloppy. They looked… out of town. Texas boys, maybe. Sun‑tanned, tall, dressed well without trying too hard. Entirely out of place in New York and somehow all the more charming for it.

Other girls had noticed them. Caitlin saw the glances, the assessments. But the men had zeroed in on them.

One of the boys lifted his glass slightly toward the ballerina.

She smiled—small, shy—and blushed.

Caitlin watched her friend’s reaction closely. Comfortable. Interested. Not alarmed. That was enough. She relaxed, nodded, and followed when the boy approached and invited them over.

He led them to the platform, helping each girl climb up, one by one. When it was Caitlin’s turn, he reached out—only to stop when another man stepped forward.

“This one’s on me,” the newcomer said, voice smooth and warm with a deep Texas accent.

He smiled, polite and entirely southern. “If that’s alright.”

Then he looked at her.

Really looked.

“I’m Wyatt,” he said. “What’s your name?”

Caitlin turned fully toward him.

And looked up.

And up.

And up.

Blue eyes met hers—clear, striking, impossibly calm. He looked like something out of a storybook: cowboy and gentleman all at once. Masculine, refined, sun and confidence written into his posture.

She swallowed, suddenly shy. “Hi, I’m Caitlin.”

The music swallowed her words.

He leaned down so she could speak into his ear, and his cologne washed over her—warm, clean, unmistakably male. She repeated her name.

“Nice to meet you, Caitlin,” he murmured back, close enough that the words felt personal. “May I help you up?”

She nodded.

His hands were large and steady as he held her at the waist and lifted her effortlessly onto the platform. The VIP area was expensive—prime view, sound softened just enough to breathe. Somehow, despite the music, the world felt quieter there.

Her friends were already pairing off. One boy remained alone, smiling but not flirting.

“He’s got a girlfriend,” someone shouted.

Everyone approved instantly.

They seemed… good. Polite. Well‑raised.

Wyatt asked Caitlin what she wanted to drink.

She asked what they already had, careful not to seem like she expected anything. He showed her the options, and she chose vodka with cranberry.

He poured it himself—then paused, added more cranberry than vodka, and leaned in. “I don’t want you waking up with a headache.”

“That’s really nice of you,” she said, accepting the glass.

He didn’t touch her.

Instead, he gestured toward a quieter corner of the platform and started talking—not empty talk, but real conversation. He asked about her family. Her work. What she loved. What she didn’t.

She learned his father owned land. Farms. An oil company. His tan made sense—he spent his days in the sun, helping where he could, planning to join the oil business after finishing his MBA.

Caitlin was fascinated.

She had never met someone like this in a club—charming, respectful, genuinely interested. They were only visiting for the weekend, but still… it was nice. Unexpected.

As the night wore on and the crowd grew careless, the boys decided it was time to leave. They offered—earnestly—to take the girls home, promising they wouldn’t ask to come in, wouldn’t linger, wouldn’t overstep.

No one doubted them.

They carried themselves with an easy confidence, the kind that didn’t need pursuit or persuasion.

One of them lifted a hand and flagged down a cab. The girls, unwilling to split up, waited together until—by some small miracle—a vehicle large enough arrived.

It could fit seven.

There were eight.

“Caitlin can sit on Wyatt’s lap,” her roommate said, without thinking—clearly tipsy, though sober enough to mutter a curse and a quick, sheepish apology afterward.

Wyatt blushed. Caitlin grimaced.

The driver, already impatient, tapped the steering wheel. It was freezing. It was late. And at half past two in the morning, the chances of finding another car large enough were slim to none.

“I can stay,” Wyatt offered at once.

There was no hesitation in his voice, no performative gallantry—just simple sincerity. And that, more than anything, decided her.

“It’s okay,” Caitlin said softly, exhaling a small laugh. “If you don’t mind… I can—”

The driver muttered something in a thick foreign accent about how she was so small no one would notice anyway.

Wyatt glared daggers at the driver, ready to correct him—but Caitlin reached out and touched his arm, a quiet reassurance. It’s okay.

The driver wasn’t wrong. At 5’1 and barely over a hundred pounds, she was almost invisible among them—except for the dress, the heels, the glitter.

He took the seat first—so broad it seemed to consume the space entirely—then nodded once, a silent check before moving. His touch came careful and unassuming, just enough to steady her as she eased onto his lap. Surrounded by his height, his warmth, the unfamiliar comfort of his presence, Caitlin felt something she hadn’t expected at all. She felt… good.

The cab lurched into traffic, the city sliding past the windows in streaks of light and shadow. The heater blasted unevenly, fogging the glass, the driver muttering to himself as the night pressed in close.

Caitlin was very aware of where she was.

Wyatt sat back to give her room—or as much room as the situation allowed—his posture careful, contained. She rested against him more than on him, aware of the breadth of his chest behind her, the solid warmth at her back.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, close to her ear but not touching it.

She nodded, then laughed under her breath. “I think so. This is… not how I pictured the ride home.”

“Same,” he said, a smile in his voice. “I promise I’m usually less… improvised.”

“That’s reassuring,” she said, glancing up at him.

He smiled down at her, then leaned in just enough that only she could hear him over the hum of the engine.

"For the record,” he said, low and unhurried, “you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. The moment you walked in, you stole my breath away.”

She felt the warmth rush to her cheeks instantly. She shifted slightly, more from nerves than discomfort.

“That’s a dangerous thing to say,” she murmured.

“I know,” he said. “I meant it anyway.”

She turned her head just enough to meet his eyes. “Thank you.”

Around them, the others were deep in conversation, laughing, arguing about music, oblivious to the quiet pocket that had formed between them. The cab hit a bump, and Wyatt’s hand came up instinctively—not to hold her, just to steady her at the waist, brief and respectful before dropping away again.

After a moment, he said, “Can I take you to lunch tomorrow?”

She blinked. “Lunch?”

He nodded. “In daylight. Somewhere quiet.”

She studied his face, searching for irony or expectation, and finding neither. “You know that’s not usually how this goes, right?”

“I figured,” he said easily. “I’m okay with unusual.”

The cab slowed as they turned onto her street. Too soon.

When the cab finally came to a stop, the doors opened into the cold and everyone spilled out at once, goodbyes overlapping and uncoordinated. Wyatt waited until the others had cleared the way, then shifted carefully, giving Caitlin time to slide from his lap and find her footing.

Only then did he step back, hands slipping into his pockets, offering her space.

“I really did have a great time,” he said.

“So did I,” she admitted.

“Would noon work?” he asked. “I can pick you up.”

Pick her up.

Caitlin nodded and handed him her phone, watching as he saved his number. He turned the screen toward her. Wyatt — the awestruck guy from the club.

She laughed softly. “That’s… bold.”

“Accurate,” he said, without a hint of irony.

Wyatt walked Caitlin to her building and lingered at the entrance, his hand resting briefly against the doorframe, as if there were still something he meant to say.

Caitlin noticed the hesitation immediately, the faint crease forming between his brows. “What?” she asked.

He shook his head once. “Nothing.”

She studied him, unconvinced. “You can tell me,” she said, her voice soft now, concern threading through it.

For a moment it looked as though he might. His jaw tightened, then eased again. “It’s nothin’, really,” he said, almost to himself. “I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”

“Yes,” she said at once, smiling up at him. “I promise. I won’t ghost you.”

That earned a small nod—relief flickering across his expression before he mastered it. He took her hand then, lifting it with quiet care, and pressed a brief kiss to her knuckles. Stepping back, he gestured toward the door.

“Go on.”

She hesitated, then turned and walked down the corridor toward her apartment. Just before stepping inside, something made her glance back through the glass—visible only from within.

Wyatt was still there. One hand pressed briefly to his chest, fingers spreading as if steadying himself, his gaze distant and unfocused.

The sight gave her pause—an unexpected flicker of uncertainty— —and then Sophia flung the apartment door open, and the moment shattered. “LUNCH?” “He’s picking you up?”

“Oh my God.” Caitlin laughed with the girls, still warm, her body holding onto the memory of the cab—the sound of his voice, the ease of it all. The faint unease settled, pressed gently down beneath the noise, easy to ignore.

She did not know.

She did not know that this borrowed night was already becoming before.

She did not know that the girl in glitter and heels, buoyed by city lights and possibility, was already slipping quietly into memory.

Life was fun, she thought.

And she smiled, not yet knowing how fragile that truth was.