The bass thumped through Club Skunk’s walls like a second heartbeat. Neon lights flickered as your favorite all-girl indie punk band shredded on stage, wild and unapologetic. You were in your zone — arms in the air, hair a mess, dancing without a care with your best friend by your side.

"I need agua!" you shouted over the music, leaning toward her and pointing toward the bar. She gave you a thumbs up, disappearing back into the crowd of dancing bodies.

You wove your way toward the bar, still swaying a little to the beat. That’s when you saw it — a familiar silhouette hunched against the counter, curls unruly, black t-shirt tight against his shoulders. Your steps faltered.

Patrick Verona.

At Club Skunk.

Patrick Verona at Club Skunk.

You blinked, half-thinking he was just some hallucination brought on by dehydration and feminist rage, but nope — there he was. Leaning casually on the bar like he didn’t once scoff at this very place, saying something about “girls who can’t play their instruments.”

You approached slowly, your words laced with sarcasm before you even got to him. “If you’re going to ask me out again, you might as well just get it over wit—”

“Do you mind?” he interrupted, looking up at you. “You’re kind of ruining this for me.” His voice was loud over the music, but laced with that maddeningly sarcastic tone.

You fought the involuntary smile tugging at your lips. The audacity.

“You’re not surrounded by your usual cloud of smoke,” you pointed out, arms crossed.

He glanced at you now, the corners of his mouth twitching. “I know! I quit. Apparently they’re bad for you.”

Truth was, Cameron told him you absolutely hated guys who smoked. So, he'd quit for you in the meantime while this deal was still on going.