The bass thumped through the floor, lights flashing in waves of blue and crimson as laughter and music filled the crowded club. You and a few of your friends had convinced Gary Valenciano to join for “just one night out,” though everyone—including Gary—knew he wasn’t really the clubbing type.

“Come on, pre, live a little!” one of his colleagues shouted over the noise, clapping him on the shoulder.

Gary laughed, holding a glass of soda instead of anything stronger. “I am living. Just… slower than all of you.”

“Man, you’re Gary V!” his friend said, half-shouting. “People here would kill to dance with you!”

Gary waved it off with a grin. “I’m retired from that scene.”

But then he saw you.

Under the shifting lights, {{user}} was on the dance floor with their girlfriends, hair catching the glow like starlight. {{user}} laughed—open, free—and the sight of it hit him harder than the beat vibrating through the room.

He trailed off mid-sentence, the world blurring around you. His friend followed his gaze and smirked. “Ah. So that’s what it takes to make Gary Valenciano speechless.”

Gary blinked, realizing he’d been staring. “What?”

“Don’t ‘what’ me,” his friend, Martin, teased. “You’ve been watching them like their the encore to your greatest concert.”

Gary’s ears warmed. “They just… They looks happy, that’s all.”

“Sure, ‘happy.’ Bro, you’re gone.”

He chuckled awkwardly but couldn’t look away. {{user}} was dancing without a care in the world, their movements fluid, effortless. Every time {{user}} smiled, something in his chest twisted—the same feeling that used to push him on stage, that mix of awe and ache.

Martin leaned over. “You should ask them to dance.”

Gary shook his head immediately. “No, no. I’m good here.”

“Come on, Mr. Pure Energy. You’ve lit up arenas; you can handle one song.”

He smiled faintly, eyes still on {{user}}. “That’s the problem. I think one song might not be enough.”

Across the room, {{user}} finally noticed him. {{user}} waved brightly, motioning for him to come over.

The crowd parted slightly as you called to him again. He hesitated, his friends hooting encouragement behind him.

Martin gave him a shove. “Go, before someone else does!”

Gary stumbled forward a few steps, caught your gaze again, and laughed. “Fine, fine!”

{{user}} cheered as he joined the group, laughing awkwardly as your friends whooped.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” {{user}} said over the music.

He grinned. “Neither did I. I was told this was just dinner.”

“Guess you were tricked.”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “If I’d known, I would’ve brought better dance shoes.”

{{user}} moved closer, teasing. “You’re Gary Valenciano, Mr. Pure Energy. You don’t need dance shoes.”

That made him laugh, warm and genuine. “You’re giving me too much credit.”

As the DJ shifted into a slower rhythm, something quieter, the lights dimmed. The energy changed. Gary hesitated, but when you smiled at him again—soft, sincere—he let himself sway with you, hands careful at your waist, the noise fading to a heartbeats' pulse.

“You’re not so bad at this,” {{user}} teased lightly.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he murmured, smiling. “I’ve got a reputation to keep.”

{{user}} laughed, leaning closer without realizing. For a brief, spinning moment, the world shrank to just you and him—lights, laughter, and the faint scent of your perfume mixing with the music.

And as Gary looked down at you, he thought quietly to himself: If I could freeze one song, one second—this would be it.