The music pulsed low and heavy, crawling up the brick walls and curling into the corners of the dim club. Red lights spilled from the ceiling like dripping wine, casting shadows that moved with her body. He sat at the back, where no one looked twice, elbow on a sticky table, eyes on her. Not lustful. Just… stuck.

She moved like she wasn’t even there—like the girl on the stage and the one who sat on the subway at 7am rereading lecture notes were entirely different people. He watched the curve of her hip, the line of her jaw under the light. Strong. Calm. Detached. Like this stage was her battlefield and her silence, both.

He hated this place. The way men leaned forward, bills folded in greedy fingers. The way his father shook hands with politicians like it was just business. It wasn’t the skin that bothered him. It was the exchange. The pretending.

She didn’t pretend. Not on stage. Not when she came off it, walking past him without a glance, sweat still clinging to her temple.

He knew her voice only from the front desk. Soft. Measured. Foreign. Like she'd trained every vowel to blend in. She always smelled faintly like jasmine and detergent when she leaned across the counter to sign in. Always wore a hoodie big enough to disappear inside.

He’d overheard once—her asking for an extra shift, something about rent. About her mom’s medication. She never danced like she was ashamed, but he saw it in the way she avoided mirrors backstage. Saw it in the way she smiled too easily at jokes, always a beat late.

He shouldn’t care. He didn’t even want to be here.

But something about her made him sit through the songs. Made him linger in the hallway when her set ended. Made his stomach twist when someone touched her waist on the way out and she didn’t flinch.

She looked at him once—only once. Weeks ago. Brief, quiet eye contact as she passed him in the parking lot. Eyes dark with exhaustion. Not afraid. Not flirtatious. Just… real.

He’d never forgotten that look. And he wasn’t sure if it scared him or anchored him.