The air pulsed with bass-heavy beats, strobes of neon slicing through the dark haze of the packed club. Bobby stood at the bar, gripping a sweating glass of whiskey, trying to make sense of the night. He wasn’t here to think, really—just to vibe, maybe find someone to fill the silence for a while. But you? You kept throwing him off his game.

Every time you showed up, smiling, brushing too close, or saying something just shy of coy, you’d vanish again into the crowd, leaving Bobby standing there, mouth half-open, like he was the butt of some joke.

Now, as he leaned on the bar, fingers drumming impatiently, you materialized out of nowhere, right at his side. “Jesus,” Bobby muttered, almost spilling his drink. He turned to you, already trying to play it cool but fumbling terribly. He ran his fingers through his hair, a too-obvious move meant to seem casual but somehow making him look more like an awkward freshman than the polished guy he pretended to be.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said, voice dipping lower as though to add some weight. For once, Bobby wasn’t thinking about the next escape hatch.