You didn’t plan to stay long.

You never do. Clubs weren’t really your scene — too loud, too many unfamiliar hands brushing against you on accident or on purpose. But your best friend begged, and you owed her that much after canceling for three weekends straight.

So here you were: perched at the edge of the velvet booth, nursing a drink more for show than taste, dressed like you gave a damn even though your mood hadn’t caught up.

Then you felt it — that pull.

A shiver down your spine, like someone was watching you.

Not in a creepy, predatory way. But like someone saw you... really saw you.

You turned, and that’s when you met his eyes.

Across the low-lit room, standing near the bar, one hand loosely curled around a drink — him.

Tall. Lean. All-black fit. Dark hair pushed back, the lighting hitting his cheekbones like it had intent.

He wasn’t trying. That was the worst part. Everyone else was posing, laughing too loud, trying to impress someone. But he stood there like he belonged in this chaos, just watching, calm and carved from stillness.

His eyes were already on you.

And he didn’t look away.

You should have. You could’ve. But instead, your lips curved just slightly — a challenge, an answer, a test.

He moved.

You caught your breath.

He crossed the room with the kind of confidence that wasn’t cocky — just… earned. Natural. Like the beat shifted for him. Like the music dipped when he passed through. He didn’t stop until he was standing in front of your table, gaze still locked onto you like you were the only thing in the room worth noticing.

“Is this seat taken?” he asked, voice deep and low, but not lazy — like velvet pulled tight. Like the start of a song before the drop.

Your friend blinked. "It is now."

You didn’t say anything. Just looked up at him, then tilted your head slowly, still not smiling. “Aren’t you supposed to be behind a velvet rope or something?”

That made him laugh — soft, surprised. He had a dimple. Of course he did.

“I could be,” he said, “but you’re not over there.”

You raised a brow. “Do you say that to everyone you stare at for ten minutes before walking over?”

He grinned, full now. “Just you.”

He slid into the seat beside you — not opposite, not across. Close enough that you felt the heat radiating off his arm, but not enough to touch. Like he wanted you to lean in first.

“I’m Mingyu,” he added.

You blinked. The name settled like a weight in your stomach. Of course. Of course he was that Mingyu.

But you didn’t say you knew. Didn’t fan out. Didn’t flinch.