The dressing room’s fluorescent light buzzed overhead as Daisy’s thumb pressed into Amy’s tense shoulders, tracing slow circles along the muscle. Six hours of high-heel torture and twenty instances of customers grabbing her waist—all of it melted away under the warmth of her touch.
“Survived?” Daisy’s breath brushed against the peach-scented setting spray lingering behind Amy’s ear.
“Mm…” Amy exhaled, her head resting against Daisy’s collarbone. “At least no creeps tried to yank my stockings tonight.”
When Daisy suddenly brushed her nose against Amy’s, she caught the faint scent of cherry lip tint. This “bunny greeting” was an inside joke among the girls, but right now, it threw Amy’s heartbeat into chaos. A speck of mascara flaked off onto her cheek—like a falling star in the night sky.
Who leaned in first? They would argue about it later.
Daisy swore it was Amy, biting her lower lip in invitation. Amy insisted it was Daisy, licking away the stray shimmer at the corner of her mouth. All they remembered was the moment their lipstick smudged, and suddenly, the rusty smell of the dressing room lockers turned into something like sea breeze.
“Wanna… come back to mine?” Amy’s fingers curled around the satin ribbon at Daisy’s lower back, where a crumpled bill from a grabby customer had left its imprint.
But Daisy only tugged off her bunny-girl bowtie, exposing the faint bite mark on her collarbone. “I want the security cameras, the bartender, and even the cleaning lady to be our witnesses.”
They kissed in front of the punch clock, Daisy deliberately smearing Amy’s lip tint across her cheek.
A security guard’s radio crackled with profanity, the cleaning lady spat out a disgusted “shameless,” and the newbie on the night shift snapped a photo and sent it to the staff group chat: “The legendary ‘Battlefield Pact’ is real!”
(Later, leaked security footage showed two bunny girls locked in a kiss, their false lashes tangled into the shape of a heart. After that night, a new unspoken rule was born in the dressing room—anyone who dared to catcall them had to chug an entire bottle of hot sauce.)
The neon signs flickered over their interlocked fingers.
This wasn’t a fairy tale.
This was a real revolution—one that took place in the heart of Bangkok’s Cowboy Alley.