Hasti adjusted the rearview mirror of her parked car, glancing at her reflection. Dark waves framed her face, her lips glossed and eyes lined with kohl—effortless, striking. But she wasn’t admiring herself tonight; she was strategizing. The glowing neon sign of The Blue Note Lounge flickered across the street, pulsing with the bass of loud music and laughter. Inside, the kind of girls who never got overlooked were already laughing too loudly at boys who wouldn’t give Hasti a second look if she walked in as herself.

But she wasn’t planning to walk in as herself.

She exhaled, squared her shoulders, and closed her eyes. A tingling sensation rippled down her spine, the familiar pull of separation as her spirit lifted free from her body. She glanced back—her physical form slumped slightly against the seat, limp as a doll. Vulnerable. But she couldn’t think about that now.

Hasti’s spirit drifted through the car door and across the street, passing effortlessly through the crowded bar. Bodies pulsed to the rhythm of the music, conversations blurring into white noise. Then she spotted her target: a tall blonde with sharp cheekbones and legs that seemed to stretch for miles. She was leaning against the bar, tossing her hair over her shoulder while some frat-boy type grinned at her like she’d hung the moon. Perfect.

Hasti floated closer. The girl—Alyssa, according to the bartender’s greeting—was sipping a cocktail, oblivious to the spirit hovering inches from her. With a deep breath (or the ghost of one), Hasti reached out, pressing ethereal fingers to Alyssa’s forehead. A sharp tug, and—

The blonde’s body stiffened for a second before slumping forward, her spirit peeling free like mist from water. Hasti guided the empty shell of Alyssa’s consciousness to hover near the ceiling, where it drifted lazily in dreamless suspension. Then, without hesitation, she stepped into the body.

Warmth. Weight. The sudden rush of sensation—tight fabric hugging curves, the chill of air conditioning on bare arms, the thrum of bass vibrating through high heels. Hasti flexed Alyssa’s fingers, rolled the unfamiliar shoulders, and grinned.

The frat boy blinked. “You good?”

Hasti tossed Alyssa’s hair—her hair now—and smirked. “Better than good.”

His smile widened. Finally, someone who looked at her like that.

All part of the plan.

Hasti—now in Alyssa’s tall, blonde, effortlessly desired body—flashed another dazzling smile at the guy in front of her. God, this is easy.

"Another drink?" he asked, already flagging down the bartender. His name was Jake, according to the stupidly expensive watch on his wrist and the way he kept mentioning his dad’s law firm.

She let out a practiced laugh, leaning in just enough to let him catch a whiff of Alyssa’s vanilla perfume. "Only if you’re having one with me."

Jake beamed, like she’d just handed him the keys to the city. "Hell yeah."

As they clinked glasses, Hasti couldn’t help but marvel at how different this was from her usual nights out. Back in Chicago, she’d been the queen of the scene—hips swaying, eyes locking, men tripping over themselves to get her attention. But here in Nashville? In her body? She might as well have been invisible. Their loss, she thought, taking a sip of the too-sweet cocktail.

The rest of the night played out like something out of a movie—Jake’s hands occasionally grazing her waist, his friends hyping him up like he’d just won the lottery, the bartender sliding them free shots when the crowd got rowdy. Hasti let herself enjoy it all—the way heads turned when she walked by, the way Jake’s voice got lower and slower the more he drank, the warmth of being wanted without having to try so damn hard.

By closing time, Jake was whispering against her ear, lips brushing her neck as he murmured, "You should come back to my place."

Hasti grinned. Oh, I could. She could take Alyssa’s body back to his apartment, let him peel that tight dress off her, do all the things she knew he’d never consider doing with her real self.

But then she glanced at the clock above the bar. Two hours—her limit before Alyssa’s drifting spirit might start getting restless. And as much as she loved the game, she wasn’t reckless enough to test her own limits.

She feigned disappointment, running freshly French-tipped nails along his bicep. "Rain check, Jake. Early morning."

He pouted, but she kissed his cheek before he could protest—lingering just enough to leave him wanting more—and sauntered toward the ladies' room. Locked in a stall, she closed Alyssa’s eyes, exhaled, and—

Pop. as she left Alyssa's body and saw her body slump over. She floated back to the middle of the bar and grabbed Alyssa's spirit from the ceiling, dragging it back to the bathroom and gently guiding her spirit back into it's body. Then she flew back to her car.

Back in her own body, still tucked safely in her car. She stretched, shaking off the lingering thrill, and glanced in the mirror. Dark eyes stared back at her, familiar and fierce.

Damn, that was fun.

Hasti checked her phone—no missed calls, no emergencies. Nobody had even noticed her empty shell just sitting there. A perfect night, no complications.

As she started the engine, she smirked. "Same time next week?" she said to herself as she went home to get sleep and prepare for the work day ahead.

-


The next morning, Hasti leaned back in her office chair, twirling a pen between her fingers as she stared at her computer screen. The glow of spreadsheets and project deadlines made her eyes ache, but at least her cubicle in the marketing department gave her some privacy. Corporate life. She sighed. If her coworkers knew half the things she did on weekends, they’d probably faint.

A knock on the cubicle wall made her jump.

"You zoning out again?"

Maggie, her work bestie—curly red hair, freckles, and a perpetual coffee cup in hand—peeked in with a smirk. "I’ve been calling your name for, like, a full minute."

Hasti blinked, then laughed. "Sorry, just strategizing."

"Oh, for work?" Maggie wiggled her eyebrows. "Or for your mysterious Friday night plans?"

Maggie was the only one at the office who knew Hasti had something wild going on—just not the specifics. She thought it was secret Tinder dates.

Hasti smirked. "Wouldn’t you like to know?"

Maggie groaned. "Ugh, you’re the worst." She plopped down in the spare chair, kicking her feet up. "Fine, keep your secrets. But you are coming to drinks with me and Layla tonight, right? No ‘emergencies,’ no disappearing acts?"

Hasti hesitated. "Depends. Where are we going?"

"The Foxglove—that new rooftop bar downtown. Super bougie."

Her pulse quickened. Bars meant potential new "hosts" for her little astral vacations. But she promised herself that she would only project once or twice a week, and only if it was a Friday or Saturday night. She still needed to spend time with her friends however, or they'd start thinking she didn't like them. After considerate, she relented. "Yeah, I’m in."

Maggie squealed. "Finally! Maybe you'll actually stay for once."

-

The Foxglove was everything Maggie had promised—glamorous, crowded, and pulsing with energy. Twinkling lights strung across the rooftop terrace cast a golden glow over the sleek marble bar, while the Nashville skyline glittered beyond the glass railing. The air smelled like expensive perfume and citrus-infused cocktails.

Hasti adjusted the strap of her little black dress as she followed Maggie and Layla to a high-top table near the edge. Layla—Maggie’s bubbly roommate—immediately flagged down a server and ordered a round of martinis without even glancing at the menu.

"So, how’s life in the marketing trenches?" Layla asked, leaning in conspiratorially. "Anyone’s soul crushed yet this week?"

Maggie groaned. "Don’t even get me started. Johnson emailed me again about the ‘brand synergy’ report like it’s not literally the most meaningless document in existence."

Hasti laughed, letting the familiar rhythm of their banter wash over her. For once, she wasn’t scanning the room for potential hosts, wasn’t plotting where she’d stash her body while her spirit slipped free. Tonight was just drinks. Just friends.

"And you," Layla pointed at Hasti, a playful accusation in her eyes. "Spill. Why do we never see you anymore? Are you secretly married? In witness protection?"

Hasti rolled her eyes, swirling her martini. "Please. Like I could keep a husband quiet."

Maggie snorted into her drink. "True. You’d be texting us every five minutes complaining about his socks on the floor."

The conversation flowed, effortlessly pulling Hasti in. They gossiped about coworkers, debated which downtown restaurant had the best tacos (Layla insisted it was the food truck by the park; Maggie swore by the overpriced fusion place), and laughed until Hasti’s cheeks hurt. For a dizzying hour, she almost forgot about astral projection altogether.

Until she saw her.

Across the rooftop, perched on a velvet lounge chair like she owned the place, was a girl with porcelain skin, cascading honey-blonde waves, and a laugh that carried like wind chimes. The kind of girl who made heads turn without trying—exactly the sort Hasti would have loved to borrow for an evening.

A familiar itch prickled under her skin.

No. Not tonight.

She forced her gaze back to Maggie, who was mid-story about her disastrous attempt at online dating. "—and then he actually said, ‘I don’t usually go for redheads, but—’"

"Ugh, men," Layla groaned, throwing a napkin at her. "Why are they like this?"

Hasti half-listened, her fingers tapping restlessly against her glass. The blonde girl was sipping champagne now, surrounded by a group of adoring guys hanging onto her every word. One of them leaned in, whispering something that made her giggle, and Hasti could practically feel the effortless power she carried.

It would be so easy. Just a quick trip to the bathroom, a momentary disconnect, and—

"Earth to Hasti." Maggie snapped her fingers. "You okay?"

Hasti blinked. "Yeah. Yeah, totally." She plastered on a smile. "Just got distracted by… the view."

Layla followed her gaze to the blonde and smirked. "Ohhh, I see. Someone’s got a girl crush."

Hasti laughed, forcing herself to relax into her seat. "Hardly. Just appreciating aesthetics."

But the temptation hummed in the back of her mind like a song stuck on repeat.

Not tonight, she reminded herself firmly. Tonight is for real life.

She picked up her drink and clinked it against Maggie’s. "To not letting Johnson ruin our will to live."

Maggie grinned. "Amen to that."

Hasti exhaled, pushing aside the lingering urge. Tonight, she’d stay present. At least that's what she told herself for about 2 minutes.

Hasti's gaze drifted past the rooftop lights, landing on him. Tall, tousled dark hair, a crooked smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes as he joked with his friends. He had the kind of confidence that wasn't loud—just effortless, like he didn't need to prove a damn thing. And the way his dress shirt clung to his shoulders? Damn.

"Oh. Ohhh no," Maggie drawled, snapping her fingers in front of Hasti’s face. "I know that look. You’re into him."

Layla twisted in her seat, scanning the crowd. "Which one? Wait—black shirt, stupidly good jawline?”

Hasti groaned into her drink. “It doesn’t matter. Guys like that don’t—”

“Don’t what?” Maggie challenged. “Don’t date gorgeous, hilarious women with the most iconic cheekbones in Nashville?”

Hasti swirled her martini, her voice lowering. “Don’t date brown girls. Not here.” The words tasted bitter, but it was the truth. She’d seen it a hundred times—guys like him lighting up for blondes, for petite girls with freckles and doe eyes, while she faded into the background no matter how tight her dress was.

Layla slammed her glass down. “Bullshit. Go talk to him.”

“What’s the point?”

“The point,” Maggie said, leaning in, “is that you never let them win. Walk over there like you own the air he’s breathing. And if he’s stupid enough to not see it? His loss.”

Hasti chewed her lip. The temptation to slip into someone else’s body—someone palatable to guys like him—flared again. But tonight wasn’t about shortcuts.

“Fine,” she muttered, tossing back the rest of her drink for courage. “But if this goes south, I’m blaming you for peer pressure.”

Layla grinned. “Deal.”

Hasti willed her pulse to settle as she approached his table. “Hey,” she said, aiming for casual but landing somewhere between confident and please-don’t-make-this-awkward. “I’m Hasti.”

The guy—Ethan, his friend supplied—turned, his smile polite but distracted. “Hey.”

She kept her chin up, her body language loose like this didn’t matter. “You in town for work, or…?”

“Yeah, finance,” he said, glancing past her toward the bar. Then, after a beat, he added, “Look, you seem cool, but—”

She already knew.

“But I’m not your type,” she finished, her voice steady.

His cheeks flushed. “It’s not—I mean, you’re gorgeous, just not—”

“Yeah. Got it.” She forced a smile. “Thanks for being honest.”

She walked away before he could stammer out another empty compliment.

“Asshole,” Layla declared the second Hasti slumped back into her seat.

Hasti shrugged, reaching for Maggie’s untouched shot of tequila. “At least he didn’t lead me on.”

Maggie snatched the shot back, sliding a fresh one toward her instead. “His loss. And now?” She pushed the salt and lime toward Hasti. “We drink to trash men and better prospects.”

“To better prospects,” Layla echoed, clinking her glass to Hasti’s.

The tequila burned, but the warmth in her chest wasn’t just from the alcohol. It was from Maggie’s arm slung around her shoulders, from Layla’s dramatic retelling of her worst rejection (“He said I looked ‘too exotic’—what does that even mean?!”), from the certainty that tonight, at least, she wasn’t alone.

Hasti licked the salt from her lips, grinning. “Next round’s on me. And if Ethan over there looks this way?”

“He’ll wish he was your type,” Maggie finished.

Hasti laughed, tossing her hair. Damn right.

The night blurred into laughter and too many tequila shots, the sting of rejection dulled by the warmth of good liquor and even better friends. Hasti leaned against the rooftop railing, the neon glow of downtown smudging in her vision. Maggie was mid-sentence—something scandalous about her boss’s secret affair—when Hasti’s gaze snagged on the exit across the terrace.

There they were.

Ethan—Mr. Not My Type—was slipping his arm around that honey-blonde girl’s waist, whispering something in her ear that made her toss her hair and giggle. The girl pressed into him like she’d known him for years instead of hours, her manicured fingers curling possessively around his bicep.

Hasti’s grip tightened around her empty glass.

"Ohhh no," Layla murmured, following her stare. "Don’t even look at them."

Hasti didn’t reply. The tequila was a hot, liquid defiance in her veins, and suddenly, she was done. "I’m tired of this," she muttered.

"Tired of what?" Maggie hooked an arm through hers, trying to steer her away.

"This!" Hasti gestured wildly toward the happy couple disappearing into the elevator. "I could’ve been fun. I could’ve been amazing. But he didn’t even try to see it—none of them ever do!"

Layla squeezed her shoulder. "Then he’s an idiot."

Hasti scoffed. "No, he’s typical." The words spilled out, sharp with liquor and frustration. "And I’m sick of pretending it’s fine. Sick of being overlooked. Sick of watching guys like him fall all over girls like that when I’m right here."

Her friends exchanged a glance. "Okay," Maggie said carefully, "let’s get you home before you incinerate someone with your eyes."

Hasti let them tug her toward the exit, but her mind was already racing. Ethan and Blondie were probably headed to some bougie afterparty, some dim-lit bedroom where he’d worship her in ways Hasti wouldn’t even get the chance to experience.

Not in her own skin, anyway.

The thought hit like lightning.

"Bathroom," Hasti announced abruptly, pulling free. "One sec."

She didn’t wait for their protests. The second she was locked in a stall, she braced her hands on the sink, staring at her reflection—flushed cheeks, smudged eyeliner, the fire in her own dark eyes.

She could go home. She could let this night be another anecdote for Maggie and Layla to laugh about later.

Or.

A slow, wicked smile tugged at her lips.

She closed her eyes.

And let her spirit slip free.....



The hallway outside the bathroom was empty. Hasti’s spectral form darted past oblivious bartenders and stumbling drunk girls until she found them—Ethan and Blondie, waiting for the elevator, his hands already under her jacket.

Hasti hovered behind them, revenge sweet on her tongue.

With a deep breath, she reached out. Her fingers—ghostly, but firm—gripped the blonde’s shoulder.

A sharp tug.

The girl slumped forward, her consciousness lifting away like smoke. Ethan frowned, steadying her limp body. "Babe? You okay?"

Hasti didn’t hesitate. She stepped in.

Blonde hair. Pink lips. Long legs. Skin that Nashville adored without question.

When she opened her eyes, Ethan’s face melted into relief. "There you are."

Hasti—no, Aubrey, according to the ID in her clutch—smiled. "Here I am."

And when his lips met hers, she kissed him back, savoring the irony.

Ethan’s mouth was warm, insistent—the kind of kiss that probably made most girls melt. But Hasti (currently piloting Aubrey’s stolen body) felt nothing but burning satisfaction.

Here he is, so eager for a girl who’s basically a mannequin right now.

She let the kiss deepen for exactly three seconds—long enough to really sell it—then abruptly pulled back.

“Wait, what—” Ethan started, eyes dazed.

Hasti smirked. “Oops. Forgot something.”

And then she kneed him square in the crotch.

Ethan doubled over with a strangled “Guh—!”, his face turning a spectacular shade of purple as he crumpled against the elevator doors.

“Asshole,” Hasti hissed in Aubrey’s voice, smoothing down the girl’s short skirt. “Hope that stings all night.”

She left him wheezing on the floor and marched straight to the ladies’ room. Behind the locked stall door, she exhaled and let Aubrey’s consciousness slip back into place, guiding it gently like tucking a sleeping child into bed.

The blonde girl blinked, swaying slightly as she glanced around the bathroom, confused but unharmed. “What the… did I black out?” she muttered, touching her lips like she’d missed something.

Hasti’s spirit zipped back to her own body—still slumped in the bathroom stall—and gasped, her eyes snapping open. Her reflection stared back at her, grinning like a cat who got the cream. The tequila haze hit her full-force, but the giddy thrill of payback was stronger. She checked her reflection, wiped the smudged eyeliner, and strutted out to meet her friends.

"Oh my God, Hasti!" Maggie practically tackled her the second she stepped out of the bathroom. "You missed the best part!"

Layla was wheezing, clutching her stomach. "That blonde girl—the one you were just talking about? She knee’d that guy in the dick."

Maggie mimed an explosion with her hands. "Like, full-on ends of the earth devastation. He looked like he was gonna puke."

Hasti pressed a hand to her chest, feigning shock. "Really? But they seemed so perfect for each other."

Layla dabbed at her smudged eyeliner, still laughing. "Turns out Aubrey"—she said the name like it was a punchline—has standards. King Dickhead got exactly what he deserved."**

Hasti looped her arms through theirs as they stumbled toward the exit, the night air cool on her flushed skin. "Karma’s a beautiful thing," she sighed, grinning.

"Preach," Maggie said, raising an imaginary toast.

And as they spilled onto the sidewalk, laughing under the city lights, Hasti decided something: maybe she didn’t need to borrow anyone’s body to feel powerful.

But damn, it sure was fun.

And as they piled into an Uber, giddy and triumphant, she didn’t even glance back at the club—or the blonde girl now glaring at a still-wincing Ethan.

Some victories were sweeter in silence.