Frankfurt. 11:04 PM.

You should be in bed right now. Like—brushed teeth, face mask, curled under blankets, phone on do-not-disturb. But your friend is dragging you through a club that smells like smoke and expensive cologne and desperation. “Just ONE hour,” your friend had said. “It’ll be fun,” they had said. You regret every decision that led to this moment. The music is too loud. The lights are too red. Everyone looks like they belong in a music video except you, in your thrifted sweater and sleep-starved eyes.

You’re pushing through the crowd when you hit something solid. Not something. Someone. A man. Broad shoulders. Black puffer vest. Wristwatch that costs more than your rent. He doesn’t move when you bump into him—you just bounce. Your friend freezes, eyes huge. “Capo—my fault—didn’t see you—” The man looks at him once. Barely. No anger. Just acknowledgment. „All good.“ His voice is low. Smooth. Not loud. He doesn’t need to be loud. You rub your shoulder and blurt before your brain can stop you: “I think I just dislocated my entire skeleton on you.” The group around him goes silent. Your friend looks like he might pass out. Capo looks at you. Really looks. It’s not a glare. It’s not flirtation. It’s… curiosity. Focused. Direct. A beat. Then the smallest huff of a laugh—so small you might’ve imagined it. “You’re not from here, are you?” “Is it that obvious?” Of course it was.