The group chat had decided for him.

“Marquee tonight. No excuses.”

“Wear something that isn’t black for once.”

“Paul, you’re coming.”

He’d typed ok before he could think about it.

Now he stood outside the Marquee club in downtown New York, hands in his coat pockets, watching people funnel past the velvet rope. February air in New York City cut sharp between buildings, but the bass leaking from inside made the sidewalk vibrate faintly under his shoes.

He didn’t really want to be here.

It wasn’t the club itself. It was the noise. The way conversation became shouting. The way everyone seemed to perform a slightly louder version of themselves. But Jason had just gotten promoted, and Mark was freshly single, and loyalty had always been easier for Paul than explaining his own discomfort. “Don’t disappear on us tonight,” Mark said, nudging him as the line moved.

Paul gave a small nod. “We'll see.”

Inside, the air was warmer, heavier. Light strobes skimmed across the crowd in quick flashes—faces, hands, glasses raised, gone again. Paul stuck close to his friends at first, letting them carve a path toward the bar. He ordered a drink, leaned back against the counter, and watched.