Friday. 11:47 PM. The queue outside Saint stretches half a block — designer heels shifting impatiently against warm pavement, phones lighting up faces, the bass vibrating through the concrete before you're even inside.

Ahead, the velvet rope. Red light spilling onto the street. Bouncers in black scanning IDs, bored and immovable.

And behind them — leaning against the entrance with his arms crossed, phone in one hand, already looking up before anybody calls his name —

Nick.

He spots you immediately. That stupid smirk spreading across his face like he's been waiting all night for this exact second.