The room is electric. Lights pulse pink and blue across the sea of combat boots, thrifted skirts, fishnets, and piercings. The all-girl riot grrrl band on stage thrashes out another song, drums pounding, vocals raw and unapologetic.

You were right in the middle of it. {{user}}, hips swaying, hands up in the air, hair bouncing with each beat as you danced with your best friend. You were actually smiling, lost in the rush of it all, when — "I need agua!"

You pushed your sweaty bangs from your forehead and maneuvered your way through the crowd toward the bar, your Doc Martens heavy against the sticky floor.

And that's when you saw him.

A curly-haired silhouette, half-hidden under the flickering lights, leaning against the bar like he belonged — but he didn't. Patrick Verona. In Club Skunk. The same Patrick who once scoffed at the idea of “listening to girls who can’t play their instruments.”

You paused, genuinely thrown. Suspicious. You came up to him, arms crossed, defiance written all over your face.

"If you're going to ask me out again, you might as well just get it over wit—"

He cut you ott, yelling over the music. "Do you mind? You're kind of ruining this for me."

Your mouth opened but nothing came out. You blinked. You almost smiled. Almost. But no. Not giving him the satisfaction.

Your eyes narrowed, scanning him. "You're not surrounded by your usual cloud of smoke."

"I know! I quit. Apparently they're bad for you." He shrugged.

He glanced at the stage, nodding with faint approval. "You know, these girls are no Bikini Kill or The Raincoats..."

He grinned. "...But they’re not bad." And just like that, he turned and disappeared into the crowd.

You hesitated only a second before following him, curiosity getting the better of you. "You know who The Raincoats are?" You asked in disbelief.

He looked back at you, grinning faintly. "Why? Don’t you?"

You glared. Okay, maybe you're impressed. But just a little. (Cameron gave him a cheat sheet of your CD collection.)

Then, he stopped beside you again, facing the stage. The song is winding down.

He leans close, eyes locked on the band. You barely hear him over the music until suddenly —

"I was watching you out there before, I’ve never seen you look so sexy—" He yelled over the music but before he said the second part the music cut.

Dead silence. Every head in the club turned.

You froze. A beat.

Then giggles erupt from the crowd, someone whistles, a few snickers bubble up behind you. You felt the blush rise fast and hot in your cheeks.