"Stop Looking at Me Like That, You Emotionally Regulated Fuck"

By the time we arrive at Six, I've already downed three Old Fashioneds and chain-smoked 23 cigarettes like I was getting paid per puff. Back at my place, Nick and Bo had a field day dressing me up while guzzling a bottle and a half of wine. I now resemble a washed-up Hollywood B-actress whose claim to fame was fluffing egos on set and occasionally playing "Corpse #2" on a crime drama. The outfit? A hint of a neon green skirt, a white tank top, leather blazer, and knee-high boots. I'm basically one feather boa away from a drag brunch. Thank God it's late summer, so I can hide behind sunglasses and denial.

Clearly, I got swept up in the heat of the pregame and didn't voice any objections before being tossed into a cab like a consenting hostage.

In a heroic attempt to catapult my thoughts into oblivion, I head to the bar while Nick and Bo secure a table outside. It's already packed, even though it's only 7:30. As I shuffle impatiently in line, a blond hipster stereotype materializes, flashing teeth and a sense of entitlement:
"Hey, sweetie! Of course I'd run into you here! Long time no see!"

He lunges in for a hug, and I let it happen because I need the three seconds it buys me to remember who the hell he is. Then it clicks — Otto. The guy who used "sweetie" like punctuation and thought organic food was a government scam. A true visionary.

He launches into conversation like he's trying to win a radio contest:
"So good to see you! How are you? Did you have a great summer? Been traveling? You look amazing, sweetie — just amazing!"

My soul leaves my body with every "sweetie." I see a gap in the queue and dive into it like it's the last lifeboat on the Titanic. With a half-assed apologetic smile, I wave him off:
"Sorry babe, need to hit the bar — let's definitely catch up later!"
I don't even wait for his response before turning back to the bar. Honestly, how have I hooked up with so many human cautionary tales?

Meanwhile, Nick and Bo are already mid-fight over a ridiculously hot, Spanish-speaking man sitting at the next table. I attempt to pour water on the fire — or vodka, technically — by shoving drinks into their hands. It kind of works. Maybe they were just dehydrated. Because let's be real: he wasn't that hot.

Six is the kind of bar where every possible flavor of human shows up. In summer, it's just picnic tables tossed onto a parking lot; in winter, it transforms into a shoebox with overpriced drinks. You can order anything from Sancerre to blue slushie shots, which naturally attracts everyone from stockbrokers to social rejects from your old high school. Although, they might not be mutually exclusive actually.

I love it. Mostly because when freaks from all walks of life gather, you stop feeling like one yourself. You just blend in with the madness. No one's sober enough to notice anyway.

After a few rounds and zero viable hook ups for me, Bo and I sit around waiting for Nick to return from the bar with fresh cocktails. He's surgically attached to his phone, waiting for a reply from his new coworker — the poor man Bo's trying to set me up with. It's every flavor of awful. A blind date, live, with an audience. I feel like I'm 7 again, going on playdates arranged by my mom. But saying no to Bo feels like telling a golden retriever to sit in a corner and cry. You just... can't.

Michael is exactly the kind of guy who could be the Yang to my Yin—if only I'd met him in an entire different life. He's probably already into mortgage payments, a savings account, 6 a.m. workouts (the non-sex kind), couple's dinners, and coordinated Christmas plans. I know, two years from now, he'll have a baby on the way with someone named Theresa.

He's an accountant, like Bo. Nick and I have banned him from talking about work because even though we all deal with numbers, his job is so boring it could put a caffeinated parrot to sleep.

Michael's halfway through transforming into his "Theresa-ready" self. Objectively handsome, in a glossy, high-maintenance kind of way—his hair's dyed the exact tone of liver pâté, slicked back like he's about to sell me overpriced cologne. He calls it effortless. I call it 'French soap opera lead lost in the Meatpacking District.' Theresa's going to fall in love with his linen shirts and low emotional availability.

After we power through the mandatory "dating profile icebreaker questions" coached by Bo, Nick finally returns. Thank God. Michael launches into a spiel about investing in art, and I immediately want to smash my drink into his smug face. Bo senses the sinking ship and tries to gently nudge him out the door:

"Right, Michael, fascinating... but didn't you say you've got an early morning bike ride? We're heading to Sascha soon anyway. Not sure the club scene is your vibe tonight."

Michael, bless his deluded heart, replies, "I think I can hang for one more—it's only 9 p.m."

Here's my problem with art investors: they treat art like stocks and bonds, totally ignoring the messy, subjective heart of it. They're basically vultures circling to cash in, not patrons supporting artists. Of all the ways to make money, art should be last on that list.

So Michael basically just walked into a volcano and decided to stay for the fireworks.
"So, have you found the next Damien Hirst yet?" I ask with killer politeness.

He straightens his posture and says with all the confidence of a used-car salesman,
"Oh yeah, I'm watching a couple—one from Amsterdam's art academy, another from Oslo. You probably haven't heard of them, they're still pretty underground. But that's how stocks work, right?"

I'm burning inside but I keep my cool.

"Are you a collector yourself? Like, art you'd actually want hanging at home?"

He laughs like I just asked if he wears socks with sandals. "No way! I've got Hirst's latest lithograph as an investment, but that's about it."

I gape at him while Bo tries to cut in, sensing the meltdown is coming.
"Michael, maybe this is a good time to... see, I think you two might have very different takes on what art really mea..."

"You shallow, clueless, money-grubbing nightmare." I snap, standing up and leaning over the table like I'm about to perform a hostile takeover.

"You exploit vulnerable, brilliant artists for your own profit. You should be embarrassed. If you cared even a little, you'd be a patron, not a parasite. But no—you're pure evil in pastel yellow."

Michael looks confused, his face a shade of tomato. "But I am supporting them—I invest in their work."

Bo and I exchange looks. The guillotine is already falling.
"Investment means expecting a return, Michael. You lend money to make more money. That's not support. If you cared, you'd be a protector, not a banker. And by the way, you have no clue how to invest in art. The real winners all trained in London or New York and showed in the same five galleries within five years. You deserve to lose every cent."

Michael's red face is less rage and more humiliation, as if being dragged down by a fluffer-in-leather and neon green skirt wasn't his Saturday night plan. After a painful silence, he turns to Bo and mutters, "I think it's late. I should go. Thanks for the invite—don't bother next time. See you Monday."

He stands, and I sink back down. Bo nods at Michael as he vanishes into the crowd like a bad Instagram filter.

There's a long, reverent silence at the table, like we've just buried Michael's social life in a shallow grave between two plastic ashtrays. Bo looks deeply uncomfortable, staring into his drink like it might offer him a portal out of this moment. Meanwhile, Nick is starting to tremble—not with emotion, but with the barely contained laughter of someone who's been holding in a sneeze for three minutes too long. And then it breaks. He snorts, and suddenly he's full-on grinning.

I glance at him, unsure if I've just committed a catastrophic faux pas. I do this, the anger bursts. It's not a quality, but sometimes my hate for the world actually spills into the real one. It tells me I'm still too sober, sensitive to the world around me. A beat to long passes, and Nick's starring to laugh. Increasingly so, as he's quickly laughing so hard he's folded over the table. I look at Bo for backup, but he's giving me the exact same face he made when we once tried to teach him TikTok.

Nick gives Bo a nudge with his elbow, still cackling. Bo flinches like he's just been touched by static electricity and mutters, "I just... I just wanted to have a normal night." His voice is small, like he's apologizing to the moon. "Now I'm going to have to eat lunch alone all week. Again."

He sighs. A long, tragic exhale that could only come from a man whose entire social circle at work consists of three quiet IT guys and a woman named Britta who organizes the company quiz night.

Nick wipes a tear from his eye and finally manages, "Bo, sweet angel, it's better to eat lunch alone than with someone who collects art like Pokémon cards."

I raise my drink and chime in, "And speaking of bad investments—next round's on me!"

***

Bo was back to his cuddly, golden retriever self by the time I returned with another round of drinks. Nick's tipsy and at that affectionate stage where he basically becomes a weighted blanket with feelings. He and Bo's sitting real close, whispering like teenage girls at a sleepover, and just as I reach the table, I catch them pulling apart from a kiss that had feelings in it.

And this — right here — is why Nick can comfort Bo like no one else. It hits me in the gut, that stupidly pure intimacy of theirs. The quiet, domestic kind of love. And sure, there's a little jealousy bubbling in there, but mostly it's guilt and hopelessness.

My life? My job, my brain chemistry, swirled together? It's not a milkshake I'd wish on anyone. Loving someone while knowing your chaos might spill all over their clean white rug feels... violent. Like handing them a baby and yelling, "Good luck!"

So yeah. That one emotional gut punch sends me spiraling down my Relationship Philosophy Hole™. To snap out of it, I slam the drinks down on the table and announce, "Fuck me — I forgot the shots!"

If Negroni's can't solve your existential dread, tequila usually can.

I down one shot at the bar for mental clarity, then bring the remaining nine to the table like a proud mother goose delivering her goslings.

Bo sees the tray and smiles like a school principal who knows the student council just broke into the vending machines again. I pull out my best cartoon eyes. "So... are we good?"

He picks one up like a judge holding a gavel. "Only if you agree to a real blind date next time. And no circus-tricks. Civilized behavior only."

I blink. "You want me to go on a blind date... and act normal? That's two separate requests."

He waves the shot at me like a holy relic. "One date. One functioning adult. That's the price."

Nick is living for it. He's got his elbow on the table, chin in his hand, the smuggest of grins activated.

I try to bargain. "Bo. Boo. Babe. That's harsh. I think I deserve at least... partial parole?"

Bo just deadpans, "You called the last one an ignorant, money-hungry loser. To his face. I now have to avoid his floor for the next 10 years, and that's where the good coffee machine is!"

Nick raises his glass and toasts, "Babes, come on. Seal the deal already. Don't clog the chaos flowing."

With a long, tragic sigh, I plop down at the table, pick up a shot, and say, "Fine. But if he's one of your coworkers, I swear to God..."

They cheer like I just accepted a marriage proposal. "YAYII!!"

I knock it back, and Nick instantly points at me with the intensity of a courtroom lawyer. "No takebacks. Yak-sok?"

I groan, defeated. "Yak-sok." We lock it in. A sacred pact. With glitter and doom.

Shots are officially downed. Goodbye to Six, hello to Sascha.

We shuffle across the parking lot like a drunken little parade. Everyone's tipsy — but in that perfect golden zone. That magical place where communication is either brutal honesty or blissful nonsense.

Sascha's not so much a club as a fever dream. Low ceilings, tiled floors, and more smoke machines than safety regulations. There's one long bar selling either your poison on the rocks or lukewarm canned beer, and the rest is dance floor. The kind of setup that whispers, "Dance like nobody's watching, because honestly no one is — the fog's too thick."

It's only 10:00, but the place is packed. After a ten-minute wait in line, we find the last two feet of bar space to stand in. I nod to the too familiar face of my disciple behind the bar, and get myself a whiskey, Bo and Nick go vodka. The bartender hands us shots in plastic glasses, and I pull a full sour lemon face.

"They've abandoned real glassware. Civilization is dead."

Bo and Nick roll their eyes like patient parents dealing with a wine snob toddler. I'm about to launch into a 20-minute rant — and then don't. Just breathe. That's how I know I'm exactly the right amount of drunk. Mind somewhat on, body off-duty, feelings in airplane mode.

Bo's the only wallflower — Nick's already moving like he's trying out for the national team in competitive joy. And me? I'm not much better.

The second the French remix of Christine and the Queens' Tilted drops, Nick lights up like someone hit his switch. Starts bouncing like the floor's made of pure adrenaline.

My pulse is a war drum in my ears — sharp, cold, deafening. But I don't stop.
I don't want to. There's something about the bass, the lights, the swirl of sweat and synth that makes me feel weightless and hunted all at once.

And just like that, we've got the first track of tonight's imaginary documentary:
Urban Rats: A Love Letter to Neon and Regret.

***

You'd think the countless hours I've sacrificed to Sascha's dance floor would've left me in peak physical condition. A lean, toned party gazelle. Nope. After fifteen minutes of cardio in a room with the climate control of a greenhouse, I'm gasping for air and making a mental note to tell my parents the location of my will.

I attempt communication with Nick and Bo. "Guys! I'm going to the smoker's lounge!"
Nothing. Not even a flicker of acknowledgement. They're in the kind of trance only hormone-heavy affection and cheap rum can create.

I jab Nick lightly in the ribs. He turns, bleary-eyed and euphoric. I mime the international sign for "cigarette" (wild flailing followed by desperate puffing motions).

He squints at me. Smiles. Waves me away like a particularly persistent fruit fly.

"Charming," I mutter.

But as I turn, he suddenly grabs my shoulder and gestures: drink?

I nod. Oh, of course. Not a goodbye, not a "stay safe out there," but a drink order.
Strategic little tyrant.

The smoking area is... a social jungle. Everyone's posturing in their little corners—elbows out, hair freshly tousled. I find a sliver of table space to perch on, legs crossed like I'm auditioning for a melancholy French film. It's chilly, finally, and my skin immediately thanks me for the temperature drop. Honestly, it feels medicinal.

Nearby, a girl is pleading with her phone like it's a hostage negotiator. In another corner, two people are reenacting the final scene of every teen rom-com.

I light up and stare at the sky like a misunderstood teenager, pretending I'm not actively eavesdropping on every conversation within a 3-meter radius.

There's flirting, overthinking, theories about love and signs from the universe. And I? I am still pretending I never received that text. Which is, I think, growth.

Cigarette done. Emotional reset complete. Bar time.

At the bar, I catch eyes with someone. A stranger. Objectively handsome. Subjectively staring at me like I'm an optical illusion he doesn't trust.

I smile, subtle. We're too far apart for words, so we do the whole "intense eye contact while both pretending to be incredibly interested in the drink menu" thing. He raises his eyebrows once, I smile again—this is flirting for people who hate small talk.

I make a note to locate him later, find out where he lands in my "Best kisser within the zip code"- contest. I can only hope he does the same. I give him a farewell wink, which in my mind is mysterious and sexy. In reality, I may have looked like I had glitter in my eye.

Back to the guys.

When I reach our previous coordinates—gone. Of course.

Then Nick appears from the fog of bodies and sound, wordlessly grabbing the drinks from my hands and guiding me toward a newly claimed high table like some victorious raccoon leading me to a treasure hoard.

We do a semi-graceful cheers and down half our drinks before Bo shouts over the music:
"So, did you find any victims yet?"

I raise a brow. "Victims?"

Bo usually saves this kind of banter for when he's exactly two drinks from declaring love to a lamppost, which means—yep, timeline checks out.

"Victims. You know. Romantic targets. Eye candy. People to accidentally kiss and then spend six weeks overanalyzing."

This is not Bo, this is Nick's influence. Poorly executed, Nick knows my hookups are typically long-forgotten in mere days.

"Wow," I say, sipping my drink, "you've really grown into your villain era."

Bo shrugs. "It's the lighting."

I smirk.

"I met someone. Bar guy. Good eyes. Will locate and inspect further later. Otherwise, no."

Bo raises his brows high enough to hit the ceiling. "No? As in... you haven't seen anyone you already know?"

There's too much weight in the word "already." Suspiciously casual.

Nick bursts out laughing, which is the sound of doom.

"Nicholas," I say, slowly, "what. did. you. do."

He puts on that mock-innocent grin that only means trouble.
"I may have told a few people from the talent program about Sascha."

My drink pauses halfway to my mouth.
"What few people?"

He shrugs.
"Like... one. Okay, one. One of the Dutch guys. Chill. He texted saying he's too drunk to even find his shoes. No one is coming. Why are you reacting like I invited your parole officer?"

I narrow my eyes. "Because you could have invited someone I would rather fight a brown bear than run into."

Nick tilts his head. "Why do you always talk in riddles when something is obviously bothering you? Who's the brown bear?"

I sigh. "It's not important. He's not coming. Moving on."

He stares at me.

I raise my hands."No secrets! I just didn't feel like suddenly having to pretend I'm emotionally balanced and thriving. I already wore real shoes. That's enough effort for one night."

He's about to respond, but the DJ saves me. The opening sirens of Cyril Hahn's remix of Don't Save Me blast through the speakers like a divine intervention. I grab both boys and drag them to the floor before anyone can resume the interrogation. I hate remixes of most songs, but this one's impossible to fuck up. Every single version is gold with gold dust. We dance like it's the soundtrack for my life, and I feel just a drop or two of pure joy in doing so.

We're on round two of the dancefloor marathon. If it was sweaty before, it's now a sauna with better music. My hair has officially given up. The space is tighter, the crowd louder, and the vibe? Somewhere between "ecstatic" and "possessed."

We're lip-syncing entire verses, over-performing each line like we're on a drag stage. Every dramatic arm movement gets a laugh. We're thriving.

And then—boom. Bar Guy is back. Just... there. In our little circle. Smiling. No introduction needed. He's immediately part of our meltdown.

He's clever, funny, does a terrible robot impression on purpose, and gets me to laugh so hard I nearly lose my balance. Then, smooth as ever, he leans in, touches my waist lightly, and says,
"Quick errand. I'll find you again, promise."

I nod, grinning. He bites his lip, deep breath, disappears into the crowd like some charming specter.

From studying a year of my masters in Berlin, my minor might as well have been in "Detect substance ingested by eyes" and not marketing and management. Other than that, do I need a resume? A birth certificate? No. Man's got timing and good shoulders. We're good.

Later, we're spiraling into the part of the night where time bends and nothing makes sense anymore. Bo's hovering one sentence away from a full philosophical crisis, and Nick is glowing with endorphins and making heart eyes at literally everything.

The crowd has tripled. We have to form a chain just to move. At one point I am holding Bo's belt loop, Nick's elbow, and a stranger's wrist just to get to the bar.

Eventually, Nick and Bo reach a new level of coupledom so intense that I start to feel like an intruder.

"Okay," I say to myself. "Time to vanish. Like a smoke bomb in neon green and leather."

I sneak off. No goodbye. No fuss.

I grab a whiskey, miraculously. Well, not actually. It was up for grabs, sort off. I head toward the smoking area, a lone adventurer seeking solace and nicotine.

In the void, half muffled bas, half cool wind. Halfway there—arms. Around my waist. Strong. Confident. Determined.

A jaw rests on my shoulder.

"There you are," he says, a warm breath and loud whisper. "Been looking all over for you."

I smile. Instinctively, as he tightens his grip around me. Hugging me hello.

I rest my cheek against him for just a second. Folding my hand in his across my waist. Welcoming him.

He kisses my cheek, breathy, hungrily. I can feel him smile, as he says "Smoker's lounge?"

In response, I grab his hand and start leading us through the mayhem. From the bass, Towards air. Toward peace.

This, the little madness I'm allowed.

From the hallway out into the open, we're greeted by what can only be described as a sea of liquified limps.

Uncertain if my new friend knows the layout as well as myself, I silently set sail. Appropriate for what I have in mind, the dimmed lit corner furthest from the entrance is our deserted island.

It's an uphill battle, but I try to channel Lara Croft, hoping speed and agility will find me, maybe for the first time, ever, really. A bruise, or a slight sprain on his wrist will most likely be the only actual memory of me by tomorrow.

After whisper-yelling a frantic "Sorry!" in plural, just to cover my bases, I flash every expression I can think of to scream harmless: big eyes, guilty smile, full "oops, my bad" energy.

That's when I spot the final boss — a set of identical, protein-loaded twins blocking the fence like nightclub gargoyles.

I drop my friend's hand and launch myself through the narrow gap between them, practically horizontal, gripping my drink like it's a newborn I just promised not to drop. My foot skims one of their shoes, but somehow, miraculously, I stick the landing — one hand on the fence, the other still wrapped around my whiskey.

"And they said I had no survival instincts."
I mutter it to the fence like it knows what I've been through, then down the rest of my drink like I've earned a medal.

No response.

Which is strange. I definitely left someone behind.

I glance over my shoulder, expecting curls and victory to come trailing after me. But no curls. No new friend. Just the slowly rising horror that I might've sacrificed him in my glorious, tipsy charge.

I turn around fully.

And that's when it hits.
Horror. Pure, clean, cinematic horror.
Written all over my face in real time.

"Why didn't you reply to my texts?" the intruder says. One brow lifted above his blue eyes.

As if he somehow went undercover, just by wearing a leather jacket? I know it all tastes the same in the dark, but I'm still taken aback by my complete lack of attention to detail.

I look at him, trying to understand how the fuck he teleported here. Tousled hair, Sweaty soft curls. White t-shirt, black jeans, Doc. Martens.

He's rubbing his left hand, but it doesn't seem like a nervous twitch, then I see the purple mark and the math sort of adds up.

"What are you doing here?" I exhale, after my last few brain cells have cracked the teleportation case.

Completely undeterred from my displeased tone, he says. "I came with some friends. It's a club. What do you think I'm doing here?"

I scoff, and try to guide him back from his wrong turn, "At Sascha's? Sorry, but it doesn't seem to be your kind of place"

"Well, you don't really know that. Do you?" he says with just a hint of know-it-all.

"True, I don't actually know, or need to know." I say with a thin smile. Eyeing my get-out-of-jail card, I continue: "You'll find Nick somewhere inside. I have someone to find. Have fun!"

He grabs my wrist, before I can dive into the deep end of limps. I notice a slightly puzzled expression form, before he goes, "Hey, I asked you a question. Why didn't you reply to my messages?"

I look at him impatiently, and answer "As in plural? Several texts?" then a beat, "I've been busy. Plans with someone special last night and tonight."

Lying definitely feels like my best shot at keeping him as far from my personal space as possible. His touch, his eyes, that leather jacket—add in my current blood-alcohol level, and I'm about four seconds from shredding what's left of my already unstable impulse control.

His expression gives me the smugness of someone who sees right through me. "You mean the guy who thought I was the third? Why are you avoiding me?"

His attitude pushes all the wrong buttons, almost sobering me up entirely. I tilt my head, arch an eyebrow as I try my best dismissive voice, "Let's not push our luck."

His tilted head and arched brow's enough to tell me I have to do better than that. So I file additional evidence;

"Nothing good has really come from getting to know each other, right? I fucked up word-womiting all over you, said sorry. You fucked up closing in on me in front of my door. I don't need an apology, let's just leave it be." I end with a shrug to compliment the indifference in my tone.

He seemed completely unfazed, just calmly and a bit cocky, go, "I wasn't going to say I'm sorry."

The nerve on this man gets to me, the way deliberately pushing for something I'm definitely not offering. He doesn't know what he's doing to me, and I want - need - him to get out of my sight as soon as possible, so I try the truth this time,

"You know how people say that enemies in a previous life, get married in this life?" A beat, then "Well, believing that, I'm pretty sure we were married in a previous life. We are definitely what's called ill-fated." I say, in a mocking tone fit for having to dumb-down the obvious.

"I think it's pretty quick for us to get engaged." He says jokingly.

I roll my eyes along with a loud sigh of frustration. He laughs.

"I'm kidding. Relax! I just want to hang out with you. Hang out with me tomorrow, well today." he says as he slightly pulls on my wrist.

"No, there's no reason for us to hangout." I try in a stern voice. Eyeing him to let go of my arm.

The corner of his lips curl, before he goes, "You seem like a nice person, I would like to get to know you"

I scoff, then say "That's a lie. You already know that better than most people"

He just grins, as everything I say is a mere joke, "I think it would be nice to get to know you better"

I give him a pointed look, give him a beat to mull the words over again. Instead, he leans in slowly, inches from my face and goes, "that's why I followed you out here, you know"

This is all the evidence I need to know that this man has never been rejected in his entire life. Unfortunately, he knows exactly the power he holds. I mean, my legs soften just by the sight of his dimples and piercing eyes up close.

I take a step back, in attempt of not short-circuiting completely, then try to stay true to the wall I need in between us,

"Well, I wanted to get to know my new friend, whom I thought I brought out here. Not you, my colleague. In spite of what you might think, I don't mix the two. People at work - colleagues, clients, associates - I don't fuck with." In closure, I cross my arms before me, trying to add a physical boundary too.

Moments pass as he leans in, inches from my face yet again and says "Right, then let's hang out, friend. If we're just friends, colleagues, there's no reason why you can't hang out with me tomorrow, right?"

He leans back, towering a head above me, the right side of his lips curled up in a full blown smug.

I furrow my brows, as I'm mulling over whatever logic might work on his relentlessness. He interrupts my train of thought, as he commands,

"Take me to a museum. Nick said you love art"

"Nick loves art. Take Nick. I'm busy" I shoot back.

Hostility boils towards Nick from ratting me out, and before I know it, August's back at it, "That's the least you can do. For cussing me out. Your dear colleague. Do you want me to write an awful evaluation of my time in Copenhagen?" His voice reeks of deceitful innocence.

"You are exhausting, you know that, right?" I deflect. Hoping to buy me some time to find an actual excuse.

"Right, what museum should we go to?" He says, victoriously.

"I'll text you" I answer, and muster a tense smile.

"What time?" he immediately replies, clearly testing my credibility.

I sigh, as he just reminded me of the burden that is reality. In a tone that clearly conveys surrender and exhaustion, I voice more of a plea,

"It's 00:30. This conversation almost sobered me up entirely. I can't believe we've been out here long enough for me to get cold. I have plans before passing out. Tomorrow's Sunday. I purposely don't have any 8 AM meetings. Can we just play it by ear?"

He disregards my plea, only picks up on one thing; "Plans? With what's his face you thought were actually holding your hand? That Felix guy?"

I roll my eyes as I sigh "No."

He looks at me, as I should go on. "No.. what?"

"Just none of your business, No." I answer concisely.

He lifts his eyebrows slightly, as I somehow offended him. Moments pass, before a slight smile forms, saying "Right, tomorrow then. 9AM since it's the weekend."

My lips form an O immediately. "What, no, that's inhumane."

He shrugs, "Better get to bed early then" he says teasingly.

I sigh, my brows raised "No."

He continues jokingly "Phew, better get home soon then. Want to share a cab?"

I shake my head, somewhat in disbelief of whether he's serious or not. "No."

"Here, take my jacket" he says, as he's already about to put it over my shoulders.

"No." I say, like a toddler refusing to wear clothes all together.

"Is that all you can say?" he teases, as he pulls it close over my crossed arms.

"No." I say, eyes fixated on the cobblestones.

He lets out a chuckle, "Right, cab it is then."