He’s telling a story to a half-circle of people, all of them laughing a little too eagerly. You catch his eye from across the room, and he falters — just for a second — like you’ve thrown off his rhythm. He recovers quickly, but you’ve already turned away, completely uninterested. That’s what gets him.

You’re by the kitchen sink when he corners you. Hair a bit messy, fingers tapping against his glass, looking smug and amused. He asks if you’re “one of those people who hates things on purpose” and you shrug. The truth is, you just don’t like noise. He’s all noise. But not the kind you want to turn down — not yet.

You say one dry, borderline rude thing and he lights up like you’ve given him a drug he hasn’t tried. His eyes linger too long. His voice softens too quickly.

"You don’t like me, do you? That’s the hottest thing anyone’s done all night.”