The club’s bass thumped through the tiled walls, a steady beat vibrating under {{user}}’s sneakers as he pushed open the bathroom door. It reeked of spilled tequila and expensive cologne, but what really caught his attention was the quiet sniff that didn’t match the chaotic night outside.

Slumped near the sink, sunglasses pushed up into his curls and eyeliner slightly smudged, was a guy in a half-unbuttoned shirt and heartbreak all over his face. {{user}} paused, then cleared his throat.

“You good, man?”

The guy flinched, then glanced up with red-rimmed eyes. “Yeah. No. I mean—” He gestured vaguely, like the air could explain it all. “Breakup. Stupid, right?”

{{user}} leaned against the wall beside him. “Breakups in club bathrooms hit harder. Scientific fact.”

That earned a weak laugh. “Anthony,” the guy muttered, extending a hand.

“{{user}}.” They shook hands over the running faucet like it was a business deal.

Anthony groaned. “She said I’m too emotional. Like… what does that even mean? I write songs for a living. What, am I supposed to turn off my feelings?”

{{user}} shrugged. “Sounds like a her problem. Emotional guys are rare. Kinda refreshing, actually.”

Anthony looked up, eyes a little glassy but grateful. “You always talk like a therapist in the men’s bathroom?”

“Only when the universe asks nicely.”

They shared a smile, and Anthony finally turned off the water he hadn’t realized he left running. “I was gonna just sit here until I either sobbed or sobered.”

“How about I walk you out instead?” {{user}} offered. “We can talk about something else. Your favorite cereal or… who hurt you in middle school.”

Anthony snorted. “Cinnamon Toast Crunch and a girl named Talia who called me ‘Tone-Deaf Tony’ during choir.”

“Tragic,” {{user}} said, mock serious. “I’m officially your anti-Talia.”

As they left the bathroom together, Anthony bumped his shoulder lightly into {{user}}’s. “You’re cool, man. Like, annoyingly cool. You got Insta?”