Frankie strutted into the dim bar and the room woke up. Her taco costume—sequins for salsa, a cheeky lettuce ruffle, a lime-wedge headpiece—caught the orange and green lights as if the place had been decorated just for her. She slid onto a stool and drummed a rhythm on the polished wood while a salted rim found its way to her hand.

“Margarita magic,” she told the bartender, whose beard and easy smile made the neon look soft. He poured with a flourish, tasted the balance, and topped it with a wedge like a promise. “First one’s on the house,” he said. “You’re doing public service, brightening the room like that.”

Frankie raised the glass. “To good decisions,” she said. “Or at least entertaining ones.” The crowd laughed nearby; the DJ nudged the tempo. Two sips in, her shoulders loosened. Three sips in, her hips remembered the point of Halloween was to be a myth you could live inside for one night.

She danced on the narrow runway of the bar’s edge—just enough to tease, not enough to spill—letting the costume flash and the room cheer. The bartender kept pace with water breaks and lime refills, a word in her ear when shoes got slippery, a steady palm when she hopped down. The attention made her bold; the boldness fed the attention. It was a perfect little engine.

“Last call in ten,” he murmured later, leaning in so only she heard it. “I’ve got a quiet room in back if you need air. And maybe a private playlist.”

She should have said no. Instead, she said, “Lead the way, jefe,” because it sounded more fun in Spanish and because his grin landed warm and low in her stomach. He tapped the bar twice, tossed a towel over his shoulder, and guided her through a bead curtain that whispered like rain.

The back room smelled like oak and citrus. A single lamp threw a gold oval across a leather banquette. Music softened to a humid thrum. He offered water, then bourbon—she chose the middle and accepted both. When his fingers brushed hers around the glass, the hint of spark wasn’t subtle.

They talked first—about costumes that never arrive on time, the perfect salt-to-sugar balance, the curse of bad lighting. It felt like leaning against a warm speaker: the conversation had bass. When he kissed her, it was careful enough to be gentlemanly and certain enough to cancel the question. She tugged him closer by the shirt; he answered at the waist. The taco costume creaked; both of them laughed into the kiss.

Heat gathered, deliberate and mutual—hands mapping curves over fabric, mouths tasting tequila and lime, breath turning rough at the edges. He kept checking her eyes; she kept nodding him onward. There was nothing coy about it. She wanted the night to keep escalating, and he was fluent in that language without tripping past respect.

When the world narrowed to touch and rhythm, the neon outside might as well have been a distant storm. The only things that mattered were the pull of his hands, the slide of hers, and the shared shiver that said yes, there. The room blurred in the best way: no dialogue left to manage, just the tidal give-and-take of two people choosing the same page at the same time. The rest is theirs alone.

Later—hair a beautiful mess, lipstick victorious if imperfect—Frankie lay back on the banquette and laughed at the ceiling. “I owe you a Yelp review,” she said. “Five stars for presentation. Ten for enthusiasm.”

He pressed a kiss to her wrist. “Come back next Halloween,” he said, voice low with the kind of promise that doesn’t overreach. “We’ll build a limited-time menu.”

“Sizzling quesadilla,” she declared, tapping his chin with her lime wedge. “With extra heat.”

Outside, the bar lights dimmed to a late-night hush. Frankie tucked a napkin note with his number into the tiny purse hidden under her shell. The DJ packed cables; a broom drew slow lines across the floor. On the sidewalk, the city air felt cooler, cleaner, friendly. She walked away on steady heels, the sequins on her costume clicking like applause.

For once, the aftertaste of a wild night wasn’t regret—it was spice. The kind that lingers on the tongue and makes you grin when you think about it the next day. Frankie texted herself a reminder: buy limes; learn a proper shaker snap; keep the dress. Some stories you only tell the girls. Some you tuck away like a match, ready for the next spark.