The bouncer at the entrance, a colossus with a groomed black beard, tight gray tee straining over his sculpted pecs, looked up and recognized us instantly.

First he nodded at David, a greeting like old friends.

"Hey, David."

The voice came out warm, accompanied by a wide smile that parted his beard and lit his dark eyes. David returned it with a relaxed smile, raising a hand in a quick gesture.

"Hi, Mike. All good?"

"Yeah."

Mike shifted his gaze to us, me, Amanda, and Trick, and nodded again, a shorter but friendly nod, from someone who'd seen us there every Sunday for months.

"Guys."

Amanda and I replied with a smile and a nearly simultaneous "Hi, Mike."

Trick timidly raised a hand.

"Hi."

Mike gave one last general nod, then pulled aside the heavy black velvet curtain separating the entrance from the room, letting us through.

The sound of the music hit us immediately: deep bass vibrating in the chest, overlapping voices, distant laughs, a sonic wave enveloping everything. Before fully entering, David turned to Mike.

"See you later, huh?"

"Okay, buddy."

Mike gave him a light pat on the shoulder, a quick, manly gesture, and we went in.

The interior enveloped us at once: soft pink lights pulsing slowly on matte black walls, long counter in dark wood polished to a mirror shine, backlit bottles sparkling like gems suspended in the dark. The central floor was surrounded by low, deep black velvet couches, inviting and comfy, perfect for sinking in and following the show without missing a single move.

The air was warm, thick with sweet scent and spilled alcohol, the crowd the usual Brooklyn queer mosaic: groups of friends laughing their heads off, guys in short glittery tees and ripped pants, couples making out shamelessly in the darkest corners, girls with rainbow hair, some disoriented but visibly euphoric tourists, eyes wide at the unfolding show.

On stage right then there was no main drag, it was Samira Luxe's night, but a younger queen with electric blue wig and shiny latex dress was circling the tables, posing for selfies, tossing sharp quips with a razor smile.

We settled on our reserved couch at the back, near the stage: soft velvet yielding under weight, lights dancing on our faces as we leaned back against the backrest, ready to dive into the night.

David turned to us.

"Want drinks?"

I shook my head, relaxing against the velvet.

"Nothing for me, thanks."

Amanda raised her hand.

"A cosmopolitan for me, please."

Trick nodded softly.

"Beer for me."

David sized him up for a moment, an eyebrow arching with that typical ironic big-brother gesture he'd always teased him with: a mix of amusement and contained impatience.

"Well, get your ass up, muscle man. I can't carry everything myself."

Trick caught the insinuation on the fly. The blush rose from his neck in a quick wave, coloring his cheeks a deep crimson; he jumped up from the couch, the velvet letting out a muffled rustle under the sudden shift.

"Yeah... right," he muttered embarrassed, shoulders instinctively hunching as he followed David toward the bar.

I leaned toward Amanda, lowering my voice to overpower the steady bass of the music.

"So, why not give Trick a chance? Don't you see you've literally stolen his heart?"

She feigned innocence, but a little smile touched her lips, betraying everything.

"Come on, Matt..."

"You know how many girls would jump on him?"

Amanda's eyes slid toward the bar, where the guys waited for drinks. Trick turned right then, as if sensing our gaze. For a second their eyes met; he lowered his head right away, embarrassed.

"And that smile?" I insisted, following her eyes' trajectory.

"Well..." she replied evasively, fiddling with her skirt hem, fingers torturing the fabric.

"He's not a bad guy, actually. But there are things that... don't inspire me in him."

"But you've never gone out with him," I retorted, a bit more serious now. "At least try. See how he really behaves."

She stared at me for a moment, her eyes lingering on mine with that insight that left no escape, then her gaze slid back toward the bar. David was paying, Trick beside him with two beers in one hand and Amanda's cosmopolitan in the other.

"And tell me," she resumed, "why has nothing ever happened between you and David?"

I looked at her puzzled, thrown by the question that hit straight like an arrow.

"Why that face?" she laughed softly. "He's cute too. He has that reliable air, like the classic boy next door who makes you feel safe without even trying."

"Excuse me?" I looked at her incredulous. "Amanda, don't tell me you like David."

"Well... if he were straight, I'd have given him a chance for sure," she said, with a light laugh masking a kernel of truth.

Actually David wasn't bad.

In fact, he was much more than "not bad."

He had a steady job he really loved, he was affectionate without ever being suffocating, and he was always there when needed: a message at the right time, a beer opened on the table after a shitty day, a softly spoken "everything okay?" without demanding immediate answers.

When I'd started living with him and Trick, I was a wreck: buried in the chaos of the new job, frustrated by days that seemed identical, head full of things I couldn't sort out.

We both knew we were gay from day one, but no spark had ever ignited. Not from my side, nor (apparently) from his.

There had never been that moment of palpable tension, that silence changing meaning, that caress lingering just beyond due.

Nothing.

We'd simply become chosen family.

Period.

Yet Amanda had this fixation: if two guys were gay, they had to end up together just because they shared the same orientation. Every time she said it, I teased her:

"Well, you and Trick are straight, so why don't you two get together?"

And she'd burst out laughing, changing the subject instantly with a hand wave or a "Come on, Matt, don't say nonsense."

But in her eyes always remained that flash: pure, naked embarrassment, barely veiled by a secret she stubbornly denied even to herself.

The guys returned from the bar with drinks in hand.

Amanda took the cosmopolitan Trick handed her, the bright pink liquid sparkling under the club's low lights.

Trick gripped his cold beer, fingers already beaded with condensation sliding slowly down the glass, leaving damp traces on his skin.

David set the gin and tonic in front of me, the tall glass tinkling softly against the glass side table, ice crackling quietly as it settled.

"For you," he said with his gentle way.

"Thanks, even if it wasn't necessary." I said, raising my eyes to him.

The lights went out suddenly, leaving the club wrapped in pulsing darkness. Then they exploded in purple and pink, spotlights cutting the air like blades.

On stage, amid thick smoke and deafening applause, Samira Luxe appeared. The DJ started "Bad Romance" by Lady Gaga, and she began the lipsync: perfect movements, dramatic expressions, energy overwhelming the room like an irresistible wave.

The crowd went wild: shouts, whistles, raised hands waving to the beat.

After the furious lipsync on "Bad Romance," Samy switched to a slower, more theatrical number, "Believe" by Cher, with fluid movements, fake tears streaking his heavy makeup, and an explosive finale that sent the club into rapturous applause.

Then, between a quick costume change backstage, he returned for the spoken segment: mic in hand, ironic voice, teasing the crowd with sharp quips about exes, politics, and "queen life in this shitty Brooklyn."

Time slipped away fast, a whole hour evaporated in a breath amid crystal laughs, quick-succession numbers, and interactions keeping everyone nailed to the couch.

Samira was an artist at entertaining: she knew exactly when to draw a laugh, when to draw a collective sigh, when to make the room explode in a roar of shouts.

Amanda elbowed me in the side, snapping me back to the present abruptly.

"Hey, wake up."

"What's up?"

She pointed with a discreet nod toward the bar.

"There. Someone's been staring at you since we got in."

I turned my head slowly, trying to make the gesture casual.

And I saw him right away.

Leaned on his elbows at the bar, glass tight between his fingers, he watched me with a composed smile. Hair buzzed at the sides, a silver earring catching the club's dim glints, dark purple shirt and black jeans. He had a balanced build, nothing showy, just a solid, quiet presence drawing the gaze without effort.

I returned his greeting nod with a small, almost imperceptible head movement.

Amanda gave me another light elbow right away.

"Come on, what are you waiting for? Go for it. Maybe he'll make you forget the guy from The Vault."

Even Trick, sitting next to her, leaned a bit and added with his decisive voice: "You shouldn't waste anything in life, Matt."

I glared at them, exasperated.

"I'd slap you both, you know?"

Maybe a distraction that evening could help me break free, at least for a bit, from Andrew Harrington's persistent shadow, interrupt that vortex of memories imprisoning me in an incessant, suffocating cycle.

Maybe.

I rose from the couch with a slow movement, the almost full gin and tonic glass tight between my fingers, I hadn't barely touched it, too caught up in the exploding laughs around, conversations bouncing like sparks, the club's enveloping roar keeping my mind occupied, protected from thoughts that otherwise would have overwhelmed me.

"Just make sure you don't start making out on this couch while I'm gone." I said.

Trick, as usual, blushed to his ears. Amanda shot me a "come on" look, then said:

"You better not make me an aunt too young."

I gave her the middle finger with a crooked smile, then headed to the bar.

With the usual shyness assailing me every time a gaze lingered too long on me, pulse accelerating in an irregular rhythm, palms moistening despite the club's humid heat, I stopped in front of him.

"Hi," I said.

"Hi," he replied, and the smile spread slowly on his face. He extended his hand, palm open, a simple and direct gesture.

"Pleasure, Lucas."

I shook his hand. A secure grip, lingering just a second beyond normal, fingers closing around mine with an almost exploratory firmness. The contact left a trace of warmth on my skin when it withdrew, an imprint persisting even after the hand returned to his side.

He leaned back on the bar casually, elbow on the shiny wood, glass dangling softly between his fingers as he watched me with that calm, curious air.

"I saw you clapping like crazy," he commented. "Friend of the diva?"

"Yes, Samira's a dear friend of mine."

"Very funny," he agreed, bringing the glass to his lips for a slow sip. The ice tinkled softly against the glass as he lowered his gaze, then brought it back to me, eyes seeming to read something I hadn't said yet.

"I'm here with a friend, you know, blind dates. I'm moral support."

"Friends are for that, right?" I replied, trying to keep a light tone.

I took the gin and tonic glass David had brought me earlier, brought it to my lips, and took a short sip through the straw. The ice had melted a bit, diluting the flavor into a fresh lime and mint that slid down my throat like a small relief after the earlier applause and shouts.

He nodded, relaxed, leaning an elbow on the bar.

"You instead? Night with friends?"

"Exactly."

We talked a bit more, light chatter, the kind that flows without commitment. But at a certain point my eyes, as if drawn by a force I couldn't control, slid beyond his shoulders.

And I saw him.

Just beyond the bar, isolated from the crowd, he was there, leaned on his elbows on the shiny wood, gaze lost in an undefined point as if the club and its chaos didn't touch him at all.

Platinum blond hair absorbing the cold neon glints, turning them into blades of light caressing his face and igniting mobile reflections among the strands.

Dressed differently from that night: black shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal the sculpted line of his chest, dark jeans molding his legs with magnetic cling.

Andrew.

The name exploded inside me like a violent impact, a punch to the sternum stealing my breath for an instant.

The gin and tonic wavered dangerously near the edge, ice tinkling against the crystal.

The music retreated into the distance, bass becoming a distant hum, voices an indistinct buzz, as if the world had reduced to him.

Just him.

He wasn't laughing, wasn't talking to anyone.

Staring at an empty point, like he was waiting for something or someone.

He couldn't be there.

Not him.

Not now.

But he was real.

Unmistakable.

The glass almost slipped from my fingers; I gripped it tighter, the cold of the crystal biting my skin, but it wasn't enough to stop the tremor rising from my hands to my arms.

Lucas kept talking, but his words came muffled, like from another room.

I couldn't tear my eyes from Andrew.

And he, as if sensing the weight of my gaze through the crowd, turned slowly.

Our eyes met.

A second.

Maybe less.

But it was enough.

His expression changed in a beat: eyes dilating slightly, lips parting in mute, almost incredulous surprise.

For an instant the smile vanished, replaced by a flash of pure recognition, intertwined with something deeper and more voracious, a craving resurfacing suddenly, like a flame rekindling after years of extinguished ash.

Then it returned, slow and oblique, with that same magnetic and dangerous smile that had disarmed me that night at The Vault.