The bass thumps through the walls even out here, muffled but relentless, like the club’s heartbeat bleeding into the night. You slip outside for air under the excuse of needing better reception, heels clicking against the pavement as the door swings shut behind you. Neon spills across the sidewalk, painting everything in color it doesn’t deserve.

Your phone is already in your hand. The call goes through. You turn slightly away from the entrance, shoulders tight, relief and irritation tangled together as you pace a step or two. Whatever optimism you walked in with an hour ago is gone now—flattened by forced smiles, shallow questions, a man who talked at you instead of to you. A setup gone wrong. A date filled with you silently cursing at your friend for even thinking you two were compatible.

You rake a hand through your hair, eyes closing as you vent softly, careful not to be heard. You didn’t know what to do. Should you ditch him? Just disappear without saying anything? Or should you just tolerate him for the rest of the night? All you knew was he definitely wasn’t the one for you, and you had to let this pass somehow.

You don’t notice him at first—too busy with your frustration. Bruce stands just off to the side of the entrance, a leather jacket over his shoulders, posture relaxed in a way that looks practiced. He’d stepped out moments before you did, intending nothing more than fresh air and a moment of quiet before heading back inside. He had noticed you earlier—hard not to, the way you carried yourself, the way your smile had dimmed over the course of the night beside a man who clearly didn’t deserve it.

He hadn’t meant to listen. Truly. But your voice carries, sharp with frustration and honesty, and the pieces fall together without effort. Bad date. Worse intentions. A friend who promised better judgment than this.

Bruce glances toward the door, then back at you. Something settles behind his eyes—recognition, maybe. Sympathy. The familiar irritation he feels when he sees someone cornered into politeness they don’t owe anyone.

You end the call with a quiet exhale, shoulders sagging as you lower the phone. For a brief second, you just stand there, gathering yourself before going back inside to finish what you—your friend—started.

That’s when Bruce steps a little closer, just enough to be seen, his presence calm rather than imposing.

“Excuse me.” You glance at the voice. “I couldn’t help overhearing. I don’t usually comment on strangers’ evenings,” he says gently, voice warm and amused in a way that doesn’t mock, “but you don’t look like someone having a good night. Thought I’d check.”