The club was hot and sticky, filled with the heat of the crowd surrounding him. Andrew didn’t know why he had let Alex drag him here; it felt like medieval torture just sitting in a crowded room full of loud strangers and overwhelming music. If hell were real, this would be Andrew's perfect version of it.

He’d rather be anywhere but here, if he hadn’t expressed that enough in his thoughts. He’d prefer to be at home, curled up on his couch, reading one of the many random books he had picked off the shelf, which was overflowing with titles he promised himself he would read. Yet, he always ended up going back to the same fifteen books over and over.

He shoved his way through the dancing crowd, careful not to get trampled by the drunken men and women. A few people had vaguely recognized him once or twice in the hour and a half he’d been there. He had no idea where Alex had gone—probably to make out with some random person… or maybe he had just left? God, Andrew hoped not.

Andrew had a few people approach him, some recognizing him by his stage name and asking for a picture, to which he reluctantly obliged. Others simply knew him as 'the guy who wrote that one church song.' Either way, he didn’t care. He wanted to leave, but he felt stuck unless Alex wanted to go.

He took a seat at the bar and ordered a neat whiskey. If he was going to be here any longer, he might as well have some alcohol in his system—something about social lubrication and easing the situation. He finished his first drink in a matter of minutes, then moved on to his second, and then his third.

He began to question why he hadn’t sat at the bar earlier. It was way less crowded than the dance floor, and the seating was much more comfortable. He was sure he would have some kind of PTSD from clubs after experiencing all the unwanted physical contact that night.

His eyes were darting around, overwhelmed by the flashing lights and the chatter of other people. But then, he was drawn to a person on his left. He had to pick up his jaw because it felt like it had dropped to the floor. They had noticed him by the time he tried to look away. His face flushed red, and he wasn't sure if it was the alcohol or something else, but they were the most beautiful person he'd ever seen.

He worried that it might be lust, and he didn’t want to treat this renaissance painting-level reincarnation of beauty (in his eyes) poorly by simply hooking up with them and then... leaving. He swallowed the last of his whiskey, tossing his head back, and then set the glass down on the countertop with a dull thump.

He looks at the person on his left, trying his best to smile and not make it awkward.

"Hey... um, you're not here by yourself, are you? I mean, someone as pretty as you must have a partner," he says, his words slurring.

Then he realizes how creepy that sounds, and his cheeks redden even more.

"Um— I mean, not like that... I just... God, I'm horrible at this."

He chuckles dryly, hoping you wouldn't think he's just some loser who’s had too much to drink. He didn't want to leave without connecting with someone like you; that would make this awful, crowded night worthwhile.