The bass hits like thunder.

Kid Cudi’s halfway through “Tequila Shots”, the floor’s shaking, lights strobing in slow-motion white and violet. Bodies crush close, everyone yelling lyrics like prayers. You’ve got your hands in the air, hair sticking to your skin, throat raw from singing. It’s euphoric. Lawless. Perfect.

You’re not thinking about anything except the music.

Until someone next to you shouts the lyrics at the same time — same breath, same rhythm — and your eyes meet mid-verse.

Timothée.

It takes a second to register. Not because of who he is — but because he’s here. In the middle of it. Hood up, curls wild, hoodie half-zipped, sweat clinging to his collarbones. And he’s grinning like a teenager at his first festival.

For a second, neither of you look away.

Then he leans in, cupping a hand to your ear — just barely loud enough over the next track.

“You good?”

You laugh, breathless. “This is insane.”

His smile stretches wider. “Best kind.”

For the next few songs, you’re dancing near each other — close, then closer. Elbows brush. Shoulders bump. He knows every word to “Mr. Rager”, throws his head back for “Soundtrack 2 My Life”. When “Pursuit of Happiness” drops, he looks right at you — like this part, right here, is the reason he came.

The crowd swells. Arms wave. Voices break.

And suddenly, he’s at your ear again.

“I’m Timothée.”

You shout your name back, grinning.

He repeats it. Like he wants to keep it.

Later — lights down, encore still echoing — you’re both breathless and glowing under the floodlights. People start to clear. But he lingers, curls sticking to his cheek, hand brushing yours.

“You heading out?”

“Not if you’re not.”

He nods once, half-grin crooked. “Cool. I was hoping you’d say that.”

You just smile.

Because the music’s still playing, the lights are still flashing, and this night isn’t done yet.