He hadn’t wanted to come. Not really. Meeks had grumbled when Charlie waved the club flyer in front of his face like it was the key to salvation. He muttered excuses — a paper due, books to finish, a headache that might develop — but Neil had already looped an arm around his shoulders, Todd nodded supportively, and before he knew it, he was standing under colored lights in a room that pulsed with sound.

He didn’t fit here. Not with his glasses slipping slightly down his nose or his shirt still tucked neatly in. The others had shed their school habits quickly, adapting to the chaos of noise and laughter. Meeks kept close to the edges, sipping from a drink that he didn’t remember ordering and scanning the crowd like he was cataloging constellations. All noise. All blur. All too much.

Until you.

You weren’t loud. You weren’t even trying to be seen. You were seated at the bar, back straight, face tilted ever so slightly toward the pulsing lights. Meeks couldn’t describe the exact moment he started staring — only that everything softened when his gaze landed on you. The colors dimmed, the noise pulled back like a curtain, and you became the only thing in the club.

You didn’t dance. You didn’t laugh too loud. You didn’t need to.

And he, of course, didn’t speak. He just watched. Not in the unsettling way that creeps do, but the way poets do — absorbing details like they were secrets only he could discover. The curve of your smile. The slow tap of your fingers on your glass. The light catching your features in a way that made him question whether someone up there was playing with filters and film.

Charlie elbowed him at some point, saying something crude and grinning. Meeks didn’t hear it. He just nodded absently and let his eyes drift back to you, like some part of him didn’t care about missing anything else.

At some point, your gaze flickered toward him. Not long — not even a second, maybe — but long enough to notice his wide-eyed expression and the way his drink suddenly became very interesting to stare into.

He didn’t approach. Of course not. Meeks wasn’t the approaching type. Instead his eyes lingered along your features as you sat there.