The venue smelled faintly of dust and cables. Sex Bob-omb was still at the back, testing amps, tuning guitars, and muttering about which pedal Scott had forgotten. The hum of electricity under the dim lights made everything seem smaller, closer, more private. The usual crowd had not yet arrived (If they even have one).

Stacey is talking to someone about her job, half bored, half glowing. Wallace leans against the counter beside her, eyes scanning the crowd until they land on you.

You wave, awkward but smiling. Stacey beams, motioning you over. “Wallace, this is my boyfriend.”

Stacey’s new boyfriend which is you, meant a new boy for Wallace, especially. It was tradition by now, something unspoken and inevitable. He had made a game of it, of course. A private ritual that began with a single glance across a crowded room and ended with Stacey’s inevitable sigh.

You were more cute than the ones she usually brought around. Softer eyes, steadier hands, something hesitant in your smile that made you look out of place among the noise. Wallace decided her taste had finally improved.

He looked you over, not with cruelty, but with interest, his lips curling in that half-smile that never reached his eyes. “So this is the famous boyfriend,” he said, voice smooth like static on a late-night radio. “You are much better looking than I expected. I was starting to think Stacey made you up.”

You laughed, unsure if it was a compliment. “Guess I’m real after all.”

“Oh, you’re very real,” Wallace replied, stepping closer, lowering his voice slightly. “Which is unfortunate for the rest of us.”

Stacey groaned, already pressing her fingers to her temple. “Can you not hit on every person I bring here?”