The show had been sold out for months. We still got there three hours early and stood in line, because that’s what you do when it’s your favorite band and the venue holds like eight hundred people. By doors, my feet hurt. By the end of the opener, I was mashed against the barricade so hard I could feel every weld through my shirt.

He was behind me all night. My boyfriend. Chest to my back, arms looped around my waist, chin hooked over my shoulder when the lights dropped. The headliner walked out and the crowd surged and eight hundred people turned into one animal — pushing, swaying, breathing together. The bass hit my sternum like a second heartbeat.

Third song. His hands had been on my waist, fingers in my belt loops, holding me steady while the crowd shoved us sideways. Then one hand slid lower. A little. Heel of his palm against the top of my jeans. I thought that was the whole move — just grinding on me while the music played.

Then his fingers found my button.

I should’ve stopped him. I know. Ask me an hour earlier, in the line outside, I’d have laughed in your face — absolutely not, are you insane. But the music was rearranging my organs and the lights were strobing white-blue and everyone was packed so tight nobody could see below anybody’s waist anyway. His fingers were warm. I let him pop it.