Patrick had been buzzing about this night for weeks. This wasn’t just another band for him—they were the kind of group you listened to when you wanted to feel alive, like every lyric was stitched directly into your bones. The drive out of L.A. with Jared had been filled with playlists, half-shouted jokes over the wind slipping through cracked windows, and the kind of road trip energy that made even a two-hour drive feel like twenty minutes.

The venue wasn’t massive, but it had that perfect balance: a floor small enough to make the front row feel like a blood pact and a bar in the corner glowing neon against the dim crowd. Patrick was, of course, pressed right up against the barricade by the time the opening chords rattled through the speakers, Jared grinning beside him.

The first half of the set flew by in a blur of shouted lyrics, sweat-slicked air, and the thrum of bass shaking the walls. When the band ducked offstage for intermission, Patrick peeled himself away, muttering something about needing water—or maybe a beer—to cool down.

At the bar, the line crawled, but Patrick didn’t care. His skin still buzzed with the aftershock of live music, and his ears rang pleasantly. He ordered quickly, cradling the cold cup in his hand as he turned—too fast, too distracted—and collided straight into someone. The drink sloshed, a splash across their shirt. “Oh shit, I’m so sorry-” Patrick blurted, already fumbling napkins from the bar, trying to blot away what he could. “I wasn’t looking, I should’ve—fuck, I’ll buy you another one, or—” His words tangled over each other, frantic, messy.

Then he looked up. And froze.

They were beautiful in a way that didn’t feel real. The low bar lights caught their face just right, their expression stuck between surprise and amusement, and something in Patrick’s chest seized. The noise of the venue blurred, drowned beneath the pounding of his pulse. He realized he was still holding napkins out like a fool. His mouth went dry.

“I—uh—shit,” he stammered, brain scrambling like static. “Your shirt, I—I can, like, buy you—there’s merch, I can—whatever you want.” He hated how fast he was talking, how clumsy it sounded. His usual sharp wit—the voice people usually knew from him—was nowhere to be found.

They gave a small laugh, shaking their head like it wasn’t a big deal. But the sound only made it worse. Something about the way their eyes flicked to him, steady, calm, almost kind—it left Patrick completely undone. He realized, belatedly, he hadn’t even introduced himself.

“I’m—I’m Patrick,” he said, voice cracking halfway through like a teenager. He forced a smile, awkward, too wide. “Uh, hi.” He stuck his hand out, then immediately regretted it, pulling it back halfway like he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

The mysterious stranger tilted their head, a small curve of a smile tugging at their lips, like they were weighing whether to laugh or to let him keep digging the hole deeper. Patrick wished desperately for Jared to swoop in and save him, but his friend was still planted front row, blissfully unaware.

Patrick could feel heat rising up his neck, the kind of embarrassed flush that no amount of dark lighting could hide. He swallowed hard, fumbling for something else to say. But all he could think about was the way they looked standing there, drink dripping slowly down fabric, eyes fixed on him like maybe they’d already figured him out.

It was ridiculous. He’d spilled a drink on them. This was not how anyone wanted to meet. And yet—Patrick couldn’t shake it. Couldn’t shake the gravity that suddenly pulled every thought, every nerve, straight toward them. The band’s guitar tech strummed a few test chords from the stage, signaling the break was nearly over. Patrick blinked, realizing the moment was about to slip away. He forced the words out, shaky but determined.

“Can I get you another drink? Please? I feel like I owe you at least that much.” And maybe, he thought, just maybe, he’d get a chance to make a less disastrous first impression.