The bass pulsed through my chest, vibrating deep in my ribs as I stepped into the club. Lights flashed overhead, casting waves of red and blue across the dance floor. I wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight. I had other plans. But something—someone—kept pulling me back.

You.

That night months ago was supposed to be just that—one night. I remember how you laughed when I told you my name, as if you already knew me but didn’t care. It was refreshing. It was different. And that’s why I couldn’t forget.

You were intoxicating. The way your body moved with the music, the way your fingers traced lazy patterns along my arm as we sat in a dark corner, talking about nothing and everything. I should have let it go, treated it as what it was meant to be. But when I woke up alone, with only the scent of you lingering on my sheets, I knew I was in trouble.

So I kept coming back. Every week, sometimes twice. Looking for you, hoping, convincing myself I wasn’t desperate but knowing deep down that I was.

And now, here you are.

Across the room, you lean against the bar, your lips curled into that same smirk that’s been haunting my thoughts. My breath catches in my throat, and for the first time in months, I feel like I can breathe again.

I move before I can think, weaving through the crowd until I’m standing in front of you. You tilt your head, eyes gleaming with something unreadable, something that makes my stomach tighten.

“You look familiar,” you say, a playful glint in your eyes. “Have we met before?”

I chuckle, shaking my head. “Oh, I don’t know… maybe once or twice.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Funny. I thought I’d remember someone like you.”

“Guess I didn’t leave much of an impression.”

“Or maybe,” you counter, stepping just a little closer, “you did.”

I take the glass from your hand, setting it aside before stepping closer, close enough to feel the heat of you, close enough that I don’t need to say what we both already know.

“I never stopped looking for you.”