You followed her through the sea of bodies, past the crowded bar and onto a narrow hallway lit only by a single red lantern. The air was cooler here, the smell of perfume and sweat mingling with the faint scent of whiskey. The hallway opened into a small, dimly lit backroom where a plush, low couch waited under a cascade of soft, amber light.

“Thanks,” she whispered, a simple word that carried the weight of the entire night. “I needed this.”

“The room is dim, lit only by a desk lamp with a red scarf over it. Her favorite lo-fi playlist hums. You’ve got a towel, silicone lube, and a tiny vibrator within reach.”

“Before anything, you both sit cross-legged on the bed. She laughs about her nervous habit of over-explaining lube types. You reassure her: ‘We’ll go at your pace. Red means stop, yellow means pause.’”

I nodded, the answer already forming before the words left my lips.