The Alpha's Moon Wolf

“Don’t overdo it,” I warned the girl in the mirror, voice barely louder than the bass thumping through the wall. She looked back with kohl-smudged eyes, equal parts thrilled and terrified. “One drink, Chloe. Just one.” I slid the crimson lipstick into my satin clutch, snapped it shut, and exhaled cinnamon breath. Twenty-one at last. Old enough to order a Kingsport without sweating over a borrowed ID, still young enough to flinch when the hallway bulb flickered like it had every night since I was eight. Some fears don’t care about birthdays.

“Ladies!” Zoe’s shout ricocheted up the stairwell. She stood at the bottom, phone flashlight under her chin, turning her face into a Halloween mask. “Cab’s here. Move your adorable butt.”

Grace shoved past her, laughing. “Chloe, you coming or what?” Grace—my best friend since sandbox politics—wore silver sequins that caught the light like fish scales. She twirled, scattering rainbow flecks across the dingy wallpaper. “We’re celebrating legal adulthood, not contemplating existential dread.”

I forced a grin, but my stomach fluttered. The dark at the top of the stairs felt alive, watching. I jogged down before the feeling could root.

Outside, Kingsport smelled of wet asphalt and river moss. The taxi idled, windows fogged. I climbed in last, knees brushing paper take-out bags. Zoe slammed the door and the cab lurched toward Loft Quarter, neon signs smearing across the glass like wet paint. Grace drummed on the seat, humming something tuneless. I pressed my forehead to the cool window, counting bridges. Third bridge meant we were halfway to ECLIPSE, the rooftop bar everyone said had no last call. My pulse quickened. Not from excitement—from the certainty that something waited at the end of this ride, something with claws.

“Earth to Chloe.” Zoe poked my ribs. “You’re vibrating.”

“Nerves,” I admitted. “Big night, right?”

Grace leaned across her. “We’ve got you. Always.” She squeezed my hand, quick, fierce. The cab rolled to a stop under a violet awning. ECLIPSE. A line coiled around the block, bodies shimmering in drizzle. We skipped it—Grace had put our names on the list with a wink and a twenty slipped to the bouncer. Inside, music hit like a wave, salt and bass and perfume. The ceiling was a mirror, reflecting the crowd into infinity, everyone a constellation.

I followed my friends up a spiral staircase to the roof. Heat lamps glowed like miniature suns. The city sprawled below us, Kingsport’s skyline cut from black paper. Grace beelined to the bar, hips swaying. She returned with three cobalt glasses, condensation dripping. “Kingsport signature,” she announced. “Coconut rum, dragon-fruit, edible glitter. To Chloe’s twenty-first circuit around the sun.”

We clinked. I sipped. Sweet fire rolled down my throat, settled in my stomach, unfurled. The second sip went easier. By the third, the roof tilted pleasantly. Laughter bubbled up, foreign and welcome. I felt untethered, a balloon slipping a child’s wrist.

That’s when I saw him.

He leaned against the far railing, half in shadow, half in strobe. Tall, dark hair slick from mist, leather jacket open despite the chill. He wasn’t watching me—he was listening to a girl in sequined boots—but his stillness cut through the chaos. A hush pressed against my eardrums, like diving underwater. I blinked, and he was gone. Just empty rail and city lights.

Zoe tugged my sleeve. “Dance?”

I shook my head. “Bathroom.” I needed cold water, a moment without bass. I wove through bodies, down the stairwell into a corridor lit by flickering Edison bulbs. The women’s room door stuck. I shoved, stepped inside—and froze.

The room was empty, tiled in black, mirrors floor to ceiling. My reflection multiplied, twenty Chloes breathing hard. But the farthest mirror showed something else: the rooftop stranger, standing behind me. No glass between us, no logical angle. Just him, eyes glowing amber like coals. I spun. Empty air. When I looked back, every mirror showed only me, pale and wide-eyed.

My heart punched ribs. I backed out, slammed the door, pressed spine to cool brick. Hallway empty. Music thudded distant. I tasted metal—fear or lipstick, couldn’t tell. I forced breath in four counts, out four. Mama’s trick for panic. “Count something real,” she’d say. One scuff mark on the wall. Two exit signs. Three bulbs dead. Four fingers trembling.

A janitor’s closet stood ajar. Inside, a metal bucket caught a slow leak, ping ping ping. I stared until the rhythm matched my pulse. Calm returned, shaky but sufficient. I straightened, smoothed flyaway hair, and climbed back to the roof.

Grace and Zoe had claimed a corner booth. Grace waved, cheeks flushed. “You okay? You look like you saw a ghost.”

“Bad glitter,” I lied, sliding in. The table was littered with shot glasses shaped like crescent moons. I reached for one, then stopped. My hand wasn’t entirely mine. Under the patio heater’s glow, fingernails glinted—longer, curved, moon-white. I curled them into fists, hid under the table. A trick of light, I told myself. Too much rum, too little dinner.

A waitress appeared, tray balanced on fingertips. “Compliments of the gentleman.” She set down a single glass, black liquid swirling with star-specks. Attached was a note, thick paper, rough edge. I unfolded it.

*Little wolf, the high moon rises. Run before you’re hunted.*

No signature. I scanned the roof. No leather jacket. Just strangers laughing, spilling drinks, taking selfies. My tongue stuck to teeth. I shoved the note into my clutch, next to the lipstick.

Grace raised an eyebrow. “Secret admirer?”

“Creep,” I muttered. “Let’s bail.”

Zoe groaned. “We just got here.”

But Grace studied my face, saw something she trusted. “Another bar, then. Somewhere ground level.” She flagged the waitress, paid with a tap of her phone. We stood, coats collected. I led the way down, stairs spiraling like a drill. Each step, my legs heavier, as if gravity increased. I gripped the banister. My palm left a damp print that steamed.

Street air felt colder, sharper. Rain had stopped; pavement shone. We crossed River Row, heels clicking. A homeless man slept beneath a cardboard awning, dog curled at his feet. The animal lifted its head as I passed, whined low. Hackles raised. It wouldn’t look away until we turned the corner.

Grace chose a dive called The Rusted Anchor, all wood and brass, smelling of spilled ale and lemon polish. Inside, fairy lights blinked above a pool table. We claimed stools. I ordered water, chugged half. Grace and Zoe debated shots. I tuned them out, stared at the antique mirror behind the bar. My reflection again—only now the eyes shone amber, same as the stranger’s. I jerked back, stool screeching.

“Chloe.” Grace’s voice soft. “You’re scaring me.”

“I’m scaring myself,” I whispered.

Zoe’s phone buzzed. She glanced, frowned. “Uber’s five minutes. Milo says there’s an after-party in Maple Hill.”

I shook my head. “I need home.” Pops would be asleep, but Mama kept insomnia hours, baking bread at 3 a.m. She’d open the door, flour-dusted, and know something was wrong without words. I craved that more than air.

Grace touched my wrist. “We’ll drop you first.”

Outside, the city hummed. We waited under the bar’s green awning. A couple argued across the street, voices rising, then kissing suddenly, desperation thick. Headlights approached. Our ride. I stepped forward.

Tires squealed. A black van cut the Uber off, brakes screaming. Doors slid open. Two figures in dark hoodies lunged. One grabbed Zoe’s arm. She yelped, kicked. Grace swung her purse, metal clasp catching the attacker’s cheek. He snarled—actually snarled, animal, teeth too sharp.

I moved without thinking. My hand shot out, fingers curved. Nails—claws—raked hoodie fabric, tore through to skin. The man howled, released Zoe, stumbled. Blood scented the air, copper and salt. Power surged up my spine, electric. I felt taller, stronger, wild.

The second attacker reached inside his jacket, pulled something free. A dart, fat and purple, fletched with black feathers. Nightshade bolt. He raised it toward me. Time slowed. I saw every droplet of rain on his sleeve, every pore on his snarling lip.

Then a blur—leather, amber eyes—barreled into him. The stranger. Dart clattered to pavement. He moved faster than sight, elbow cracking ribs, palm driving jaw. Both attackers crumpled. The van driver gunned engine, tires smoking. Stranger hauled one assailant, tossed him like trash into the open door. The other crawled in himself. Van sped away, red taillights swallowed by night.

Silence. Even the arguing couple had vanished.

Stranger turned. Rain misted his hair, streaked his jacket. He breathed steady, not winded. His gaze locked on mine, and something inside me clicked, ancient gears sliding into place. Recognition without memory.

“You’re awake,” he said, voice gravel and honey. “Good. We don’t have long.”

Grace stepped between us, trembling but fierce. “Back off.”

He lifted both hands. “Not here to hurt her. Here to keep her alive.” He flicked eyes to me. “They’ll come heavier next time. You felt the change. Don’t fight it.”

My claws—normal fingernails again—ached. I swallowed. “Who are you?”

“Grant Hawthorne.” A curt nod. “And you’re Chloe Reyes, daughter of Maria and Rafael, born under waning high moon, marked by the lunar lady. Tonight your blood remembered.” He bent, retrieved the dart, tucked it inside his coat. “Keep this safe.” He pressed something into my palm—cold metal, small, ridged. A sigil? I didn’t look, just closed fingers.

Sirens wailed distant. Grant backed away. “Find me at Hawthorne Bluff Park when the hunger hits. Don’t wait too long.” He turned, strode into fog, gone before I could breathe.

Uber driver stuck head out window, shaky. “You ladies okay? Should I call cops?”

“No,” I said, surprising myself. “Just drive.”

We piled in. Doors locked. Car rolled. I stared at my closed fist. Whatever Grant gave me pulsed faint heartbeat. I didn’t open hand, didn’t want to know yet. Across from me, Zoe hugged herself, eyes wide. Grace watched me like I’d sprouted wings.

I leaned head against cool glass, watched city blur. Twenty-one years of ordinary snapped tonight like a twig. Myth hadn’t just punched me in the face—it had sunk teeth in and shaken. I tasted blood where I’d bitten tongue. The high moon hung cracked and brilliant between skyscrapers, following us home.

Little did I know this was only the first sip of a much darker bottle.

I should’ve seen the signs.

They were there the way frost creeps across a window—slow, quiet, inevitable.

Pops raised me solo since I was three, the year Mama walked into the Red Mesa Reserve with a field recorder and a head full of bedtime monsters and never walked out. He kept her voice alive on cassettes labeled in his tidy academic scrawl: “Wind-Chimes, Night 1,” “Coyotes & Shape-Shifters,” “Force Threads—Possible Evidence.” He taught comparative folklore at Kingsford, so obsession came with dental benefits and tenure. Every dinner ended with the same toast: “To the stories that refuse to stay theoretical.” I clinked my juice glass and believed every syllable.

As a kid I drew maps of Kingsport that included a borough labeled “Magic,” right between River Row and the Loft Quarter. I slept with Mama’s old micro-cassette player under my pillow, the volume turned low so the static sounded like breathing. When kids at school bragged about trips to Seabright Shores, I bragged about blood-drinking lunar ladies and twist-knot grids that could unravel reality if you tugged the right knot. I never got invited back to many sleepovers.

Yesterday—technically the last day of twenty-two—the landline rang. Only Pops and the occasional desperate alum still used it. I was microwaving leftover pad thai and pretending the fluorescent kitchen light felt like sunshine.

“You have a destiny, Chloe,” Pops said, voice crackling like old vinyl. “One that’ll demand more than tuition money.”

I balanced the receiver on my shoulder and stirred noodles that smelled like cardboard. “If this is your way of asking if I paid the electric bill, the answer is still no.”

“Listen.” A pause, then the familiar rustle of papers—lecture notes, probably, or the police file he kept in the breadbox. “The high moon is tomorrow night. The Circle will come knocking. They always start with birthdays.”

I laughed too loud. The microwave beeped in sympathy. “Great, I’ll bake a cake shaped like a chrome-edged hunter and we’ll all sing karaoke.”

He didn’t laugh back. “Stay inside. Lock the skylight. And Chloe—if you hear wind-chimes where there’s no wind, run.”

The line clicked dead. I stood there holding plastic chopsticks and feeling the apartment tilt a few degrees off its axis. Then the bass from next door thudded through the wall, and the moment dissolved into Friday-night normal: Grace’s pre-party playlist, someone vomiting in the stairwell, the smell of cheap cologne seeping under the door like smoke.

Maybe if I’d taken him seriously I’d have stayed in, binge-watched The Crown, and eaten the rest of the pad thai straight from the carton. Instead I showered, shaved everything north of the ankle, and tried to convince myself destiny was just another word for student-loan interest.

Grace arrived at ten-fifty wearing a sequin jacket that could guide ships to shore. “Birthday Eve is sacred,” she declared, shoving a paper crown onto my head. “You’re legally required to sin.”

I hate birthdays—too many candles, too many ghosts—but resistance was futile. She took one look at my sweatpants and threatened to drag me out by my hair extensions. I surrendered.

I tugged on the oxblood body-con, the one with the neckline that could start a religion, and coated my lashes in waterproof mascara—because crying in club bathrooms is a rite of passage. The fabric clung like a secret; the mirror showed a stranger with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. I practiced smiling. It looked like someone had handed me a knife and asked me to be happy about it.

Grace poured us pre-game shots of something electric blue. “To twenty-three,” she said. “May it be messy.”

We clinked. The alcohol tasted like melted popsicle and regret.

Outside, Kingsport was a circuit board of headlights and neon. We walked the six blocks to ECLIPSE, the warehouse club that used to be a textile factory back when the city still made things. The bouncer, a mountain in a leather vest, scanned my ID and grinned like he knew every terrible decision I hadn’t made yet.

Inside, the air was 50% bass, 50% sweat. Grace vanished instantly into a swarm of marketing majors. I headed for the bar, elbows sharp, heart humming. The bartender had moon-tattoos climbing his neck; when he handed me a drink, I swear the ice cubes chimed like tiny bells. I drank anyway.

Time liquefied. One minute I was nodding to a remix that sounded like a dying robot, the next I was on a couch between two guys arguing about crypto while a girl in LED wings traced sigils on their foreheads with glow-stick juice. I checked my phone: 12:07. Officially my birthday. No messages from Pops. I told myself that was good.

Then the wind-chimes started.

They weren’t part of the music—too soft, too cold. They sounded exactly like the recordings Pops played when I couldn’t sleep: distant, metallic, wrong. I stood so fast the couch scraped back. LED-wings girl looked up, pupils blown wide. “You hear it too?” she whispered. “The lunar lady’s knitting something.”

I left her there with the crypto bros and pushed toward the exit. The crowd thickened, bodies suddenly shoulder-to-shoulder, all of them moving in the same clockwise swirl. A woman blocked my path—tall, silver hair braided with black thread. She wore a coat despite the sauna heat. Her eyes were the color of storm glass.

“Chloe Hawthorne,” she said, voice low enough to slip under the bass. “The Circle claims what the Circle’s owed.”

I laughed, high and thin. “Pretty sure my bar tab’s paid.”

She reached into her coat. I expected a weapon, maybe one of those nightshade bolts Pops warned me about. Instead she drew out a flat obsidian disc, matte black, no reflection. She pressed it into my palm. It was warm as skin.

“Happy birthday,” she said. “Try not to bleed on the dance floor.”

Before I could answer, Grace appeared, sweaty and triumphant. “There you are! They’re giving out free tequila shots shaped like wolves.” She grabbed my wrist. The silver-haired woman melted into the swirl.

I looked down. The disc had vanished—no, not vanished. It had sunk into my hand, leaving a perfect circle of shadow under the skin. I flexed; nothing hurt, but the shadow pulsed once, like it had heard its name.

Grace dragged me toward the bar. Overhead, the strobes flickered into the shape of a high moon, huge and white, then snapped back to chaos. My heartbeat synced to the wind-chimes still clinking somewhere impossible.

I should’ve run. Instead I let Grace hand me a shot glass shaped like a howling wolf. The tequila tasted like copper and storm clouds. I swallowed every drop.

Somewhere in the city, Pops was probably checking locks, whispering protection marks over the threshold. Somewhere in the reserve, Mama’s recorder was still spinning, tape stretched thin as faith.

The DJ killed the music. For one heartbeat the warehouse was silent except for two hundred drunk lungs inhaling as one. Then the drummer hit a single beat—boom—like a door slamming on the world I thought I knew.

The shadow in my hand fluttered, eager.

I closed my eyes, felt the bass return, and stepped onto the floor. Destiny, tuition, ghosts, shape-shifters—whatever came next, I’d meet it in oxblood and mascara, heartbeat loud as the lunar lady’s knitting needles.

Outside, midnight turned one minute older. Inside, the Circle tightened, thread by invisible thread.

My phone jittered against the dresser like a trapped moth.

Grace: Uber’s outside. Move your perky ass.

I thumbed back a single rocket emoji, yanked the charger cord free, and clattered down five flights of crooked stairs that smelled of burnt garlic and cat spray. Outside, her Wrangler idled double-parked, hazards winking orange against the wet asphalt—heartbeat tempo, lover’s blink.

The door groaned open; a gush of cinnamon-tinged heat rolled out. She’d already deployed the electric blanket she swore was for “emergency cuddles,” but we both knew it was for nights like this—when the city felt half-alive and we needed armor against the chill of maybe.

“Looking lethal,” Grace sang, flicking her gaze from my boots to the smudge of kohl I’d barely checked in the toaster’s chrome. “You’ll break hearts tonight.”

“Right back at you.”

Sequins scaled her torso like disco-ball chainmail, each tiny mirror swallow a streetlamp and spitting it back as shattered galaxies. She’d painted a cobalt stripe across one cheek—war paint, or maybe just “Tuesday.”

I hoisted myself into the seat, the leather already sun-bath warm, and the blanket curled around my thighs like a possessive cat. Grace stamped the gas before my door fully closed; Bridgewell’s warehouse teeth blurred outside the window.

We didn’t speak for six blocks—just let the stereo do it: bassline a low panther growl, synths the neon blood in its veins. She drummed thumbs on the wheel, rings clacking, eyes flicking mirrors for cops she’d outrun before, would outrun again.

ECLIPSE rose at the edge of Oldhaven, a brick cathedral somebody forgot to bless. Its steeple still pointed heavenward, but the cross had been swapped for a rotating ring of LEDs that spelled the club’s name in Morse. The line outside coiled double, triple, shivering in fishnets and faux fur. Grace bypassed it with the confidence of a woman who’d once dated the bouncer’s sister.

Inside, the nave had been gutted, stained glass painted over matte-black. Where pews once stood, tiers of scaffolding held sweating bodies. The DJ booth squatted in the apse, altar replaced by subwoofers that exhaled incense and sub-bass in equal measure. When the drop hit, centuries-old rafters shuddered, raining centuries-old dust onto upturned faces hungry for communion.

We dove into the swirl. I felt the music find my pulse and hijack it—128 beats per minute, no negotiations. Grace grabbed my wrist, tugged me left, right, through a knot of glitter beards and latex, until we surfaced at the bar.

Nigel spotted me before I waved. Tall, shaved-sides crop dusted with silver, arms sleeved in tarot illustrations—he claimed The Tower had appeared the night his ex set his motorcycle on fire. He was already reaching for the rye.

“Carpano rinse, two dashes Angostura, one rock, cherry on the side,” he recited, sliding the glass across reclaimed oak. He didn’t ask for ID; I’d been tipping in twenties since sophomore year at Kingsford, back when my fake called me “Claire from Kansas.”

I pushed a folded ten his way; he tucked it into the tip jar shaped like a grinning moon.

Grace snatched the cherry before my fingers got close, skewering it on a black plastic sword. “Look who finally decided to adult,” she drawled, tongue staining red.

“Adulting’s overrated.” I sipped; rye bit first, then the vermouth’s velvet apology, then the bitters’ final I-told-you-so. My shoulders unknotted one vertebra at a time.

Grace flagged a server for tequila, no salt, no chaser. She believed in full-contact living. While we waited, she scanned the crowd like a falcon—head tilt, slow swivel.

“Target at two o’clock,” she murmured, lips barely parting. “Leather jacket, storm-gray eyes, looks like they edit documentaries for fun.”

I followed her gaze. The guy leaned against a pillar texting, thumbs rapid, brow furrowed as if the message might save the world or end it. A single streak of paint—artist?—whitened the cuff of his jacket.

“Not my type.”

“Your type is ‘unavailable with complications.’ He fits.”

I rolled my eyes, but heat crawled up my neck anyway.

The server arrived with shots. Grace clinked hers against mine. “To breaking hearts and curfews.”

We drank. Fire down the hatch, lava bloom in the sternum.

Music shifted—tempo dropped, synths went liquid. Bodies paired off, swaying like kelp. Grace disappeared into the bloom, sequins scattering light, leaving me lone at the bar.

Nigel refilled my water without asking. “You glow different tonight,” he shouted over the din. “Plot twist or power surge?”

“Both, maybe.” I wasn’t ready to confess the real reason: tomorrow I’d sign papers that locked me to a future wearing a suit I couldn’t yet fit. Tonight was the last night I could still be vapor.

A hand brushed my elbow—feather-light, then firmer. I turned. Leather Jacket had migrated. Up close his eyes weren’t storm-gray but tidal—green at the iris edge, brown spiraling inward, pupils wide from bass and maybe wonder.

“Sorry,” he said, voice low, sandpaper softened by rain. “Didn’t mean to sneak. You dropped this.” He opened his palm: my silver hoop earring, the one Grace swore made me look like a pirate.

“Thanks.” My fingers grazed his wrist as I retrieved it; static snapped between us, sharp enough to taste.

He smiled—crooked, cautious. “You here alone?”

“Define alone.” I hooked the earring back in, lobe still warm from stranger electricity.

He laughed, ran a hand through dark curls damp at the temples. “Fair. I’m Rowan.”

“Chloe.”

The track mutated again, vocals chopped into Morse code. Rowan tilted his head toward the dancefloor. “Risk it?”

I glanced back for Grace—spotted her on a balcony, lips locked with a girl in LED wings. Emergency cuddles indeed.

“One song,” I said.

We stepped into the tide. Bodies closed around us like water over stones. He didn’t touch, just let proximity speak: shoulders brushing, breath mingling with fog machine haze. I felt the rye orbit my bloodstream, loosening hinges. The lights strobed ultraviolet; his jacket seams fluoresced secret patterns—constellations I half-recognized, half-invented.

Halfway through, he lifted a hand—not to grab, to offer. Palm up, question mark. I slid my fingers across his, skin meeting skin like pages turning. We spun slow, counter-current, orbit of two. Something in my chest unlatched—small, metallic, important.

Song ended too soon. Applause rippled, not for us but for the DJ’s seamless switch. Rowan squeezed once, let go.

“Thank you, Chloe.” My name sounded different in his mouth—like it belonged there.

Then Grace materialized, cheeks flushed, wing-girl gone. “Bathroom conference, now.” She hooked my arm, towed me through sweat and strobes.

I looked back; Rowan lifted two fingers in salute, already swallowed by crowd.

In the restroom—once a vestry, marble cracked but holy hush intact—Grace slammed the stall door behind us.

“Found her,” she panted. “Zoe. Works the door at Equinox Range. Says the Sterling deal’s signed sealed but not yet delivered. We move tonight or we lose leverage.”

The fluorescent bulb flickered, painting her sequins zombie-blue. I leaned against cold tile, heart hammering Morse I couldn’t translate.

“Chlo,” she whispered, “you in or you out?”

I thought of Rowan’s tidal eyes, of papers waiting on a desk, of rye still burning sweet. I thought of freedom tasting like cherry stolen from my own glass.

I pulled out my phone, thumb hovering. No messages from Pops, from Mama, from the future in a suit.

I inhaled dust, perfume, bleach. “I’m in,” I said. “But first—one more dance.”

Grace studied me, saw something she trusted or feared, nodded. “Five minutes. Then we ghost.”

We exited the stall. At the mirror I reapplied kohl, painted lips vampire-dark. Grace splashed water on her neck, droplets racing sequin canyons.

Back in the nave the DJ had gone ecclesiastical—organ sample layered over trap beats, confession booth bass. I scanned for gray-leather constellations but the tide had shifted; Rowan was gone, or maybe transformed into smoke and possibility.

Grace grabbed my hand. “Time.”

We plunged toward the emergency exit, alarms already disabled by somebody’s cousin. Cold air slapped us sober. Alley stank of hops and rat poison. Her Wrangler waited, rear door ajar like a mouth ready to swallow secrets.

Behind us, ECLIPSE throbbed on, stained glass trembling with borrowed prayers. Ahead, Bridgewell’s bridges stitched borough to borough, cables glinting like twist-knot grids across the sky.

I buckled up. Grace keyed the ignition. The engine growled, ready to outrun every decision we hadn’t yet made.

“Plot twist?” she asked, foot hovering over gas.

“Power surge,” I corrected.

She grinned, stamped pedal. Tires kissed puddles, spraying moonlit wings. We shot into the night—two girls, one Jeep, zero curfews—leaving behind cherry stems, ultraviolet fingerprints, and the almost-name of a boy who might forever orbit the dancefloor in my chest.