The music blared so loud I was worried my ears would take one listen and walk straight out the door. 
Flashing strobe lights pulsed rhythmically on the dance floor where the nightclub was held.  I reclined against the wall farthest from the mob of sweaty people, letting the heavy music saturate my ears. 
Honestly, I don’t even know why I came here.  Perhaps I just wanted a change in environment from the library every day.  A change from wasting my hours away surrounded by mountains and mountains of books.  My brother calls me an antisocial mushroom.  He’s kind of right, I guess.  My goodness, I’m just about the most interesting person you’ll ever meet.  (That was sarcasm, if you couldn’t already tell.)  I couldn’t help but grin when I imagined the looks of the people in my class if they ever heard I went to a nightclub, of all places.
Strangely, this thought filled me with a sweet serenity despite the chaos around me, and I closed my eyes sleepily.
“Some party, huh?”  A light voice floated into my reverie.
“Yeah, I’ll say,” I murmured, not bothering to open my eyes.  I heard a slight chuckle from my right.
“Don’t even bother to look at me, I suppose.  I’m not getting offended, don’t worry.  Just thought I’d be a bit of company to the lonely girl in the corner.” 
A shuffle to my side, and I could tell he was leaving.
“Wait.”  I open my eyes, and there’s a boy standing there, with a clean sweep of hazelnut hair and luminescent sapphire eyes and - sorry about that.  Didn’t mean to make it that dreamy sounding of a description.  But there he was, standing right in front of me, and - oh boy, he smiled.  I just might be melting.
“Well then.  Let’s have a conversation, shall we?”  He’s British.  How did I not notice this before?  Was I too caught up in my deep questions of life to not even listen to his voice properly?
“Yeah.  Yeah, sure.  So” - I cleared my throat - “What’re your - er - hobbies?”
He chuckled.  It was one of the loveliest sounds that I have ever heard in my life.
Then I frowned.  “Shut up.”
“What?”
You see, I don’t like trusting good-looking boys.  This may or may not have to do with an unfortunate incident in my youth, when my four-year-old self punched a boy in the face for saying hi to me - something that was completely his fault, not mine, by the way.  How was I supposed to know he wasn’t a stalker?
“I don’t trust you.  You seem like a rather shady fellow.”
He laughed rather nervously. 
“Well, I should hope not.  Do you do this to every person you meet?”
“No-”
“Come on.  Let’s go get a drink.  Why ever would you be suspicious of me?”
“Because you’re gorg- never mind.  Yes.  Yes, sure.  Ok.”
And with that, I let him pull one of my arms away.  The other arm was clutching a bottle of pepper spray, just to be safe.