The bass thrums like a second heartbeat as you step into the club, the sound thick enough to settle into your chest and rattle behind your ribs. It’s dark, but not silent; far from it. The neon signs flicker like unstable stars, casting the walls in shifting pulses of red, violet, and electric blue. People move like currents around you: swaying, laughing, brushing too close. Perfume and sweat and something sharp—maybe ozone from the machines or cheap vodka—clash in the air like conflicting tempers. It’s a place you’ve been before, but tonight feels different. Not because of the music. And not because of the crowd.

Because of him.

Carter stands beside you like a monument dropped in the wrong century. His white dress shirt is immaculate—ironed to crisp lines that almost dare the heat and chaos to touch him—and his dark slacks are tailored, military neat. His arms are crossed firmly across his chest, muscles held taut like he’s expecting a riot instead of a rave. His eyes sweep the room with that ever-present wariness, scanning corners, exits, faces. You can almost hear the ancient part of him whispering about threats, about battle readiness, about the tactical disadvantage of standing beneath a rotating disco ball.

And gods, it makes you smile.

You lean in, close enough to brush your arm against his. “So? Thoughts?” you ask, raising your voice to cut through the bass. “Be honest.”

His gaze flicks toward you, then back to the crowd, and he exhales through his nose. “I think I’ve fought demons in quieter places.”

You stifle a laugh, failing miserably. “You sound like you’re about to demand a torch-lit exit.”

“I might. These lights are… chaotic,” he mutters. “And the music is definitely a weapon of psychological warfare.”

“Carter,” you say, grinning, “you’re being dramatic. Which is ironic, coming from a guy who wears wings into combat.”

His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but not nothing. Progress.

You take his hand with purpose and tug him further into the living, breathing mass of dancers. The floor pulses beneath your feet. People part around him instinctively, as if sensing the weight of centuries in his stride. Still, his body resists: stiff shoulders, clenched jaw, footsteps that falter like a man walking into a trap instead of a party.

“I don’t dance,” he warns.

“I didn’t ask you to tango,” you shoot back, half-turning to face him as the crowd pulls you both in. “Just be here. With me.”

You see the shift in his expression then, small, but meaningful. The steel softens a little. The battlefield sharpness fades to something closer to confusion… or maybe curiosity. He’s always been this way: more at home under skies blackened by storm and war, less certain in the glittering corners of human joy.

“Alright,” he murmurs at last. “But only because you asked.”

The way he says it—low, gruff, reluctant—makes your stomach flip in the most ridiculous, traitorous way. You squeeze his hand before letting go, giving him space. Just enough. You move with the music, not full-out dancing but letting the beat guide your steps, your shoulders. You don’t look back immediately, but when you do—

He’s still there. Standing awkwardly, yes, but his gaze is on you now, not the exits. His eyes soften, and for a second, the club falls away. Just sound, just color, just the warmth of something ancient trying to understand something new.