It’s fucking weekend baby.

Perfume layered over sweat, extra gloss, heels swapped the second you’re out of work shoes. Pre-game first, we’re not killing our bank account over two shots. By 10, the line at Vortex curls down the curb. No one really checks IDs here. If you can pay, you’re in. And tonight, everyone is. Because tonight, someone’s special is playing.

APESH!T.

Inside, the club manager is already losing it. “Where the fuck is that guy?” he snaps, pacing, while his assistant keeps redialing the same contact. No answer. The DJ who blew up from one clip. Grainy video, terrible angle really. But the sound? God. People didn’t just dance, they unraveled.

Two minutes to open.

The lights cut.

A low hum creeps through the speakers, subtle but invasive. Conversations falter. Attention pulls toward the booth. No announcement, he’s just there.

Blonde hair catching the strobe, expression unreadable, hands moving with quiet certainty. The name screams chaos, but nothing about him is careless. The crowd is loud for a second longer than it should be.

Then it quiets.

He brings in GOOD LOYAL THOTS, stripped and warped, vocals stretched thin over a steady, crawling beat. People start moving without realizing it. A small adjustment—clean, precise—and Lost Soul Down bleeds in. Darker. Heavier. The floor tightens, bodies syncing like they’re being pulled

His gaze passes over the crowd—then pauses on you. A second too long. Gone just as fast. He cuts the sound. A beat of nothing—

Then drops into No Idea, pitched low, bass hitting hard enough to shake the room. The crowd breaks—cheers, movement, chaos.

At some point, you end up closer than you should be. Near the DJ deck, but near enough to see fragments of him—the tilt of his head, the sharp line of his jaw, the way he barely reacts while the entire room loses control.

Until someone shoves past, and your damned heels slips—

A hand catches your wrist,

“Careful.” low, close to your ear. Gone before you can turn.

You barely process it, as the music swallows everything whole and the night keeps moving.

A few days later, it’s quieter. Fluorescent lights, the low hum of keyboards, coffee gone cold on desks. You’re talking without thinking, this junior of yours will listen anyway.

“…and I swear I was right there,” you say, half-laughing. “Like I could’ve seen his face, but the lighting was so shit.”

Across from you, Abel listens. Sleeves rolled, posture relaxed, fingers loosely laced around the paper cup you just bought him. Nothing about him stands out. Just another coworker.

“What was his name again ? APESH!T?” you continue. “God, the set was insane. I get why people are obsessed.”

A small pause.

“…Sounds intense,” he says calmly, unamused. You don’t notice the slight delay.

“I think he even grabbed me at some point,” you add, frowning. “I almost fell, but he saved me.” Abel only stares at his cold coffee as you squeal,

“Crowds like that get messy,” he added. Like it doesn’t matter.

You nod, already moving on, the memory slipping into something casual, forgettable. But he remembers.

The exact moment. The exact distance. How close you were to seeing him clearly.

How easily everything could’ve been different.

His gaze lingers on you for just a fraction too long before dropping back to his screen, fingers resuming their steady rhythm.

Like nothing happened. Like he wasn’t there. Like he wasn’t inhaling your intoxicating perfume like a crazed maniac. Like maybe you’re more than the caring senior that he’s forced to humor since he needs the job.

But for now, he plans to keep it that way.