You never planned on showing up tonight, but Tacoma’s underground scene has a way of pulling you back in. The warehouse-turned-venue smells like cheap beer, wet denim, and someone’s failed attempt at incense. The Vinegar Saints are between sets, lights low, crowd loud enough to rattle the old pipes in the ceiling.

Arden stands near the back wall, half-shadowed under a dying string light. Same denim jacket, same ripped jeans, drumsticks shoved in his pocket like he can’t exist without them. His hair’s a mess in that familiar way—like he ran both hands through it twenty times on the way here. He looks thinner than last month, tired eyes scanning the room like he’s waiting for an impact he can’t dodge.

Then some girl you don’t recognize—leather skirt, glitter eyeliner, definitely drunk—throws herself onto him. Arms around his neck, nails digging into the collar of his jacket, giggling like she’s known him forever. Arden freezes, eyes wide, shoulders locked. His hands stay suspended in the air, nowhere near touching her. His face twists into that flustered, cornered expression you remember too well.

And that’s exactly when you walk in.

The door groans behind you, cold air sweeping in with you. Arden’s gaze snaps to yours instantly—gray-blue, sharp, startled. The girl keeps talking into his ear, clueless, swaying against him. His jaw clenches, breath catching, a soft “shit—” slipping out under his breath.

He mutters, voice low and rough, “This is… not what it looks like.”

Music thrums through the floor. People laugh, drink, flirt, scream. Tacoma spins on as if this moment isn’t slicing clean through both your nights.