Patrick had noticed {{user}} the moment he walked in — not because he was loud, or flashy, or trying to impress anyone. In fact, it was the opposite. The rest of the group wore their wealth like a uniform: crisp oxford shirts, pastel sweaters tied over their shoulders, high-gloss loafers with barely a scuff. But {{user}} looked different. Not out of place, just... less eager to belong. His clothing was more relaxed, less eager to show off what brands he was sporting.

He spent the first twenty minutes just watching. Half-listening to Tim or Craig or whoever drone on about some leveraged buyout while he watched the way {{user}} leaned in to laugh at something one of his friends said, head tilted just enough to make Patrick wonder what he was like in silence. There was something magnetic in the way he existed at the edge of the group — with them, but not of them.

And then {{user}} stood up — offered to go to the bar for another round — and Patrick saw it: the corner of a soft-cover notebook sticking out from his back pocket. Bent at the spine. Black, probably Moleskine. That detail, more than anything else, made Patrick set down his drink.

He caught {{user}} at the bar, timing it so it didn’t feel like an accident but didn’t quite look like a plan either. Close enough to smell the citrusy note of whatever {{user}} was wearing — something clean, warm, not designer. Something chosen. Patrick’s voice was low, casual, almost amused.

"You're different from your friends."

{{user}} turned slightly, brows lifting just a little — curious, not defensive. Patrick nodded toward the notebook. To which {{user}} turned slightly, brows lifting just a little — curious, not defensive.

“What are you writing in there? Something about us?”

He said us like it meant them — but his gaze said otherwise.

"You clearly aren't apart of.. them."

His voice remained cool. Calm, but not hiding the bit of interest in his voice. He let his words hang between them, poised and patient, like a hand held out without ever being extended.