"Wow" indeed.

Pen held his eyes closed. The writhing ache that had clawed its way into his head was beyond stellar. It wasn't much at first, but within seconds, it grew until it exploded at the center of his mind, locking itself in place with spikes that had shot out from the pissed-off ball of discomfort and drilled into his skull, now radiating an exaggerated form of pain. He was certain his brain had given up on keeping the space for itself, deeming it too much effort, and had instead liquified and seeped down his spine and into his hooves, although he sensed no added weight sloshing around inside them. Perhaps gravity had pooled what remained of his gray matter along his back.

His back?

Pen hazarded a peek past his eyelids, and thankfully, the annoyingly dim atmosphere from earlier remained to benefit his condition.

Still in the club; one part of the puzzle solved, he thought.

"Scratch. He's coming to."

Pen's eyes lolled, skating round the edges of his lids until swooping back up after building enough inertia, their gaze landing on a stallion that stood before Pen. He was lanky but steady in his stance, and his attitude was stoic—or somber; Pen didn't currently have the faculties to distinguish. He was cleaning a glass, and a chest-high wooden wall concealed half of him and all of Pen from the rest of the club. Rows of bottles—catching the light and throwing it back in points, glinting—lined the wall. Judging by the now-quiet ambiance, Pen figured the venue was empty.

"What the hell . . . ?"

"Easy, bud. She got you good." The bartender set the glass down on the counter and passed him a cup of water. "Wouldn't be surprised if you're concussed . . . or if your jaw's broken."

As Pen drank, the cool water eased his throbbing head, but a new, raw ache stepped forward from his jaw to explain the pony's comment. Pen let his mouth hang slightly, feeling the pain grow as he stretched his lips into the shape of a yawn but with none of the satisfaction. He furrowed his brows.

"Okay, seriously, what the hell?"

"Oh fuck, I'm so sorry." Vinyl spoke from behind him. He seemed to creak as he turned on his back, noticing as he did that his head had been propped up on a short stack of dish towels. The aggressive contour of her vivid cyan-and-cobalt mane juxtaposed her face, which was delicate and concerned—a look he hadn't yet seen her display; he realized just then that he wouldn't mind gazing at her face for hours, maybe even days. Maybe he was concussed.

Obscured in the dense growth of her mane, a pair of purple sunglasses straddled the base of her horn—something, he remembered, she had placed over her eyes just as the show was starting. The memory triggered another, and more followed until, like approaching lanterns materializing from fog, the events leading up to his faux death converged: He remembered how the overpowered bass and kick compressed his lungs; how the lights performed like stars leased from that night's sky; and how, during the last song, Vinyl had been dancing. Her glasses fell off the bridge of her nose, clattering to the floor of the platform, and as Pen leaned over to pick them up . . .

"You know I didn't actually mean to kick you, right?"

"Who are you?" he said, cracking a grin before wincing.

Vinyl scoffed and rolled her eyes, a smile slipping over her lips. "And here I was feeling sorry for you."

"I don't need your sympathy. Just help me up."

"Bad idea, buddy," said the barpony. He peered from the corners of his eyes, mainly focusing on polishing the glass he had picked back up. "You should take it easy for a bit longer. You never know what to expect from a head injury." His eyes seemed to flash to Vinyl, but it was so fast that Pen wasn't sure if he saw correctly.

Pen stared at him, registering the words and the pony who spoke them. "Shouldn't you be offering me a drink or something?"

The lanky pony's gaze turned into a glare. Vinyl stepped past Pen and stood between the two of them, flashing a look at the barkeep before staring down at the librarian.

"Easy there, killer. Tipper used to be a combat medic; he knows his shit." Pen edged onto his side to look past her and observe him, scanning from his hooves to his short brown mane and observing his olive-drab coat in between. Tipper stared back, this time fully facing him, peering down as if his gaze was solely pinning Pen to the ground. Although Pen was feeling argumentative and agitated from the kick, he knew his place when he saw it. He nodded to Tipper; Tipper nodded back and returned to wiping down his glass.

"I gotta finish packing up my gear, so can I trust you two to play nice till I'm done?"

"Yes, ma'am," Tipper said, not looking up.

"Yeah, you bet." Pen set his head back down on the towel stack, pressing out a sigh as he did.

"I'll come back for you when I'm done—two, three minutes tops." She stepped past him, moving toward the end of the bar, but hesitated as she stood behind him. She paused and, before going, ran her forehoof along his cheek and up his ear—tender-like, just grazing his coat. Pen lay paralyzed, and she bore a look of surprise, glancing from his face to her hoof. It could have been the lights (or his head injury), but he swore a red blush glowed on her cheeks. Before either spoke, she disappeared from his view, the hollow clops of her hooves against the wooden floor ushering her away, and Pen was left trying to follow with his eyes, rolling them up into his head.

Five, he thought.

"How long have you two been together?" Pen jolted from the sudden voice, looking down to find Tipper, still staring at and polishing his glass.

"Is that all you do?" Pen said. Tipper, without breaking focus, tilted his head to the left, down toward the other end of the bar, where almost twenty cleaned glasses sat in rows where there had been none before. Pen's eyes widened slightly, and he decided to speak no more of the glasses.

A silence settled between them before Pen realized Tipper was waiting for an answer.

"We aren't really together."

"One-night stand?"

Pen scrunched his nose. "What? No, nothing like that. We've only known each other for a week. I don't even know if this is really a date."

"Did she say it's a date?"

"Well, I mean, yeah."

Tipper paused, thinking and letting out a hmm from his throat, before setting the glass down at the other end of the bar and picking up another. "Do you like her?"

"In what sense?" Pen sounded more deflated than he meant to, although he didn't understand why considering he had never considered the question before. Did he think she was pretty? Sure, in a messy but cute kind of way. Was she confident and witty? That was pretty obvious. Did he like her poking, prodding, smart-ass behavior?

Ah, that's where that came from, he thought.

Tipper clarified: "Are you going to see her again after tonight?"

Pen paused. "I'm not sure. We haven't talked about it." Tipper nodded and said no more. Pen eyed him and his incessant glass cleaning before closing his eyes to investigate his own mind and ask if he'd even want to see Vinyl again after tonight. It hadn't been the most glamorous of evenings—jaw and head considered—but he'd be foolish to ignore how she made him feel, albeit only during select moments of each encounter. For the most part, she was a vexing wiseass. But then there were moments like right before the concert, when they stared into each other's eyes. And what the hell was with her running her hoof along his face just now? They had touched or grazed or bumped into each other a number of times by now, but it had never been like this last time. He wondered if Tipper had seen.

"Do you think she wants to see me again?" Pen asked.

Tipper, for the first time, showed emotion: he smirked. Pen was filled with elation or dread—he was unable to tell—and it was all dependent on what a smirk from Equestria's surliest bartender meant.

"So, does he pass inspection, doc?"

Just as how Vinyl's hoofsteps ushered her away, they sounded her return. From his spot on the ground, Pen saw her lean over the bar, her mane appearing first like a neon glacier, and peer down at him, smiling as she did so—not energetic like usual, but a softer, more sincere curve of the lips. Despite his limited time with her thus far, he could tell she was tired.

"More rest wouldn't hurt, but yeah, he's fine." Tipper set down the last glass he had been cleaning and tossed the rag over his shoulder, leaning down and offering a hoof. Pen eyed the offer with caution, but he considered all the effort Tipper went through to take care of him in his vulnerable state. Despite the ambiguous smirk, he grabbed the hoof and allowed himself to be hoisted up onto his legs.

Gravity draped over him like a weighted blanket, and for a moment, he felt like he was ten minutes old again, stumbling around weak kneed before remembering wooden bar tops were solid and reliable, making them perfect for leaning against. Pen pondered if that was their true main purpose: to support drunks.

"Welcome back to the land of the walking," Vinyl said, patting him on the shoulder.

Six, Pen thought.

She continued: "I hope you still have some strength in you, because I could really use your help."

"You kick me in the head and then want me to help you?"

"C'mon, it was an accident. You know I wouldn't kick you on purpose."

"Does he?" Both Pen and Vinyl looked at Tipper, who was counting the money in his register.

"Yes, Tipper, he does."

Although Tipper continued to count, Vinyl glared at him well enough for the both of them—the kind of gaze that could hold a brick wall's attention. Pen's eyes flicked from one to the other and back again, he being unwilling to move or speak. She turned back to Pen.

"Everything is already packed into the carts; I just have to take them home."

Home resonated in his ears, and he struggled to hide the giant cotton ball that swelled in his chest. Was she inviting him into her home on the first date? No, that's not what she said. Still, it felt promising; if Vinyl weren't interested in seeing Pen again, then why would she want him to walk her home, to see where she lives?

"Uh"—he cleared his throat—"sure. Yeah, that's no problem."

A smile cracked across her face like a crevasse from an earthquake, and Pen lost himself again in her messy but cute beauty. He wasn't sure, but he thought a scoff sounded from Tipper's direction.

Pen decided he was done with Tipper for the night.

The rain made no aspect of the trek easier. Pen had smelled the scent of petrichor and ozone earlier when the crowd was first arriving, but he had since forgotten about the weather, figuring a kick to the head would do that to a pony. Still, he plugged along next to Vinyl, both having resigned themselves to their wet, sopping fates. They concentrated on keeping her thousands-of-bits-worth of equipment dry, each casting spells that covered their respective carts. The required focus coupled with their miserable conditions—the rain, the cold, the exhaustion, and Pen's head injury—kept them quiet.

Along with the silky night, the downpour cleared the road of other travelers, giving the two plenty of privacy. Everypony kept inside the cottages and small homes that lined the cobblestone path, and as the two traveled farther from the center of town, the houses spaced themselves out. Pen sometimes lagged behind a step or two to look at Vinyl without drawing her attention. Being an avid reader, he hated clichés, including when a woman is drenched in water to make her look more attractive or desirable.

But it was at that moment he realized thousands of romance novels couldn't all be wrong.

Vinyl's mane, normally excited, spiked, and gravity defying, had been slicked and straightened, as if a waterfall had sprouted from her head and neck and poured down her shoulders. What was most striking, however, was how long her hair was, its whole length reaching well past her withers and ending at the bottom of her chest. Her tail, unable to support its soaked weight, brushed the ground as she walked. The look cast her in a different light—one that was more vulnerable and feminine; whether she realized this or not, her body seemed to naturally take note. The weight of her tail now accentuated the sway of her hips, swishing with them rather than bobbing like it had earlier. It also did less to hide the curves of those hips and the haunches that rode them.

Being a decent stallion, Pen was ashamed of his actions. They also did little to stop him.

"Here we are," Vinyl said. Her words sounded foreign after listening to the rain for so long, but they burned with a welcoming warmth. Before them stood a small, single-story house, positioned on a knoll that blocked the town's view of anything farther down the road. It wasn't much, especially for a pony who claimed to "make bank," but it seemed nice; it was hardly a dump, at least. Attached to the side of her home was a small addition that was no more than a shed. They backed the carts in, and she locked the door, leaving them to fully embrace the rain without the mental strain of keeping her equipment dry.

Pen stiffened, and his stomach attempted to turn itself inside out. It struck him that this was their first-date goodbye.

"Trying to figure out if you're supposed to kiss me?" Vinyl said, pushing a few strands of soaked hair out of her face and behind her ear.

Pen stammered. "I—I, well, I didn't—"

Vinyl loosed a laugh that came from her belly and bubbled out. "Sweet Celestia, you're cute." Pen blushed and looked away, but Vinyl brought him back with a hoof under his chin. "I mean it, sincerely—no picking this time."

Pen sighed a rapturous shutter away. "Seven."

It was barely a whisper, but Vinyl's cheekbones curved up under her eyes, and she bit the bottom lip of her smirk. She leaned forward; her breath warmed his nose. It was the closest they had ever been, and before she permitted him another tally to his count, she stopped.

"Did I ever tell you my lucky number is eight?"

And she pressed in, and their lips connected.

Like a shock wave, the warmth of her entire being flew forward from her lips and shattered the cold skies and rain and drove it back, far away from them. And all that existed—all that ever could have existed, it seemed—was her, him, and this kiss. The constant glow of electricity he had seen crackling in her eyes—building, he now realized, since they first met—unleashed into his body. Gravity floated away, taking them with it, and they hung in the balance of nothing, floating in space, so long as the kiss wasn't broken.

And then, Pen felt the ground beneath his hooves again, and his eyes opened to realize it was still raining, and he felt her lips leaving his. Breath seeped back into his lungs, his diaphragm fighting to remain steady. He stared at her, convinced a kiss like that could bring back the dead.

Vinyl held a goofy, cockeyed grin—the one that showed a few of her teeth. She hummed through the smile. "Hmm, not bad for a first ki—"

Pen pushed forward, snaking his hoof behind her head, and locked their lips together.

It had all gone—everything, all sense and feeling of the outside world—with her breath, and she slipped into a warm stupor that was absent the first time. His presence overpowered her, but she welcomed it, and she sank deeper into the wilderness and unbridled emotion until all that existed—all that ever could have existed, it seemed—was him, her, and this kiss. This hidden strength met her energy and matched it, holding it in place while it buzzed and raged, like lightning in a bottle. She ached for release but wouldn't dream of being anywhere else.

And then, she began to rise—up from her warm, pleasant domicile—and rejoined the world, standing before him. Neither of them could prevent the adrenaline-fueled tremors that shook their bodies. They shivered in the rain.

"Come inside."

Not a question.

He nodded.

No answer needed.

She fumbled with her keys, unlocked the door, and threw it open, chasing it inside before it could even hit the wall. Pen marched after her, but once in the doorframe, he froze. The inside of the house was still dark as Vinyl rushed to set her saddlebags down, and all he saw was her silver-lined form, provided by slivers of moonlight eking through the blinds, slipping around inside. He tried again, remembering the kiss, but he couldn't push forward. Everything inside him was tense, and he felt like he was having a heart attack. Maybe he was having a heart attack. But then he heard it.

Does he?

Tipper had wormed his way forward from the back of Pen's mind, working through the cloud of ecstasy in which he had been lost. Again, Pen heard it.

Does he?

What had he meant? Pen thought, and it wasn't until now he realized he had been wondering ever since leaving the venue. He took stock of his situation, glancing at the cold night sky, the unfamiliar house, and the gaping darkness that lay past the door. Air escaped him, and his stomach evaporated, and he felt as if he were to vomit.

"Pen? Hello? You coming in or what?" Vinyl appeared in a flash of light, having found one of her lamps. "The sooner you get in here, the sooner I can warm you up."

She turned with a sultry grin, but all that remained before her was the open door, framing the grainy clouds and the wet cobblestone, each curve of rock shining with the orange pinstriping of streetlamps.