𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 | 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐍

river cartwright has to focus. that’s what he tells himself, anyway. the club lights were too bright, flashes of blue and red that shaded the hoards of people. river tries to keep his eyes trained on shirley, trying not to get distracted by the dancers wafting a little too close to him. there is too much alcohol, and so many underdressed women. and men.

and there’s you. in the middle of the dancefloor like an angel in glitter.

he feels underdressed in his plain white t-shirt and black jacket, lingering by the bar nursing a half-drunk beer. he’s probably a good 5-10 years older than half the people in the club too, looking like some creepy pensioner watching you like a hawk.

and then he heard you, announcing to your friends you’re heading to the bar. the bar, where he is. you are coming to the bar. christ above, he’s about to have a heart attack at the mere thought of it.

he smooths down the cotton of his shirt, attempting to find a position that doesn’t make him stand out like a sore thumb in a crowd of drunk, dancing youths. he tries a few, fiddling with the bottle in his hand, before he suddenly stiffens up.

you’re right next to him. shoulder to shoulder. asking for a drink like it hasn’t thrust his heart, brain and all functioning organs into overdrive.