The bass thrummed so hard you could feel it in your bones, and you were so in your element— dancing, messy hair swinging in time, your boots thudding against the sticky floor of Club Skunk as your favorite band wailed through another killer set.

The crowd was pulsing with energy, bodies pressed close, music too loud for conversation, exactly how you liked it. You turned to your best friend with flushed cheeks, sweaty and laughing, and shouted over the noise, "I need agua!"

You pushed through the crowd, smiling faintly to yourself as you made your way to the bar. Elbows, eyeliner, combat boots — Club Skunk was packed with the usual suspects. But then, as you reached the bar and scanned for an empty spot, your breath caught in your throat.

There, bathed in blue and pink strobes, stood a curly silhouette you knew too well.

Patrick Verona.

At Club Skunk.

Patrick Verona. Who once said he'd rather gouge his eyes out than come here. Patrick Verona, who mockingly muttered about "girls who can’t play their instruments." And yet here he was, tight black shirt and all, sipping soda with a look of casual disinterest, like he didn’t just crash your personal sanctuary.

You blinked in disbelief and started toward him, water long forgotten.

"If you're going to ask me out again," you commented, arms folded, voice sharp over the music, "you might as well just get it over wit—"

He cut you off, cool as ever, not even looking at you at first. "Do you mind?" he shouted, brow raised as he turned toward you. "You're kind of ruining this for me."

Your mouth opened slightly. That was not the response you expected. You fought the involuntary tug at your lips.

“You’re not surrounded by your usual cloud of smoke,” you said, arms still crossed, suspicious.

He turned to you fully now, smiling just a little. “I know! I quit. Apparently they’re bad for you.” He took a sip of soda, watching your expression. Your heart twitched in your chest — but your eyes rolled.

As the music roared into a new chorus, he glanced at the band and leaned toward you.

"You know these guys are no Bikini Kill or The Raincoats," he said, raising his voice over the crash of drums.

You blinked, brow furrowed.

"But they're not bad." He added.

And then he just — walked away. Like that. Casual. Smooth. Like you weren’t the reason he was even in the building.

You stared after him, stunned, then shoved through the crowd to catch up.

“You know who The Raincoats are?” you asked, eyebrows raised, incredulous.

He half-turned, smiling faintly over his shoulder like this was all part of his plan. “Why? Don’t you?”

God, he was insufferable. Infuriating. Mysterious. And suddenly, so much harder to ignore.