The club had been chaos. Strobes cut across the floor, lights bouncing off sequins and sweat. The bass throbbed against your chest, and bodies pressed too close. You were used to eyes following you; modeling teaches you how to ignore that. But his were different — impossible to ignore. Focused, sharp, patient. Every move of yours seemed to pull him closer, though no one else seemed to notice the way he lingered.
He had been everywhere that night, as if the entire club revolved around him — laughing too loud, swaying as if gravity was working overtime against him, letting strangers feed him drinks he didn’t even need. Fans screamed his name; the cameras flashed endlessly. But none of it mattered. None of it mattered until you caught his attention.
Leaning close, his breath warm, words slurred just enough to sell the act. Fingers brushed your wrist by accident—or maybe on purpose. Three times. He complained dramatically about the noise, about being too drunk, about needing air. And somehow, almost impossibly, the night folded neatly into his plan. You left together, the world behind you.
Now it’s morning.
He wakes first. Quietly. Carefully.
The room is pristine — minimalist, intentional. Neutral tones, nothing out of place. He sits up slowly, blanket pooled low around his hips, sunlight tracing every mark across his skin. His collarbone is a mess of bruised petals, dark and unmistakable. He touches one, smirking faintly, amused.
His clothes are folded on the nightstand. Perfectly. Shirt smoothed. Pants aligned. Shoes side by side.
He smiles.
Of course you did that.
He takes his time examining everything — the clean lines, the lack of excess, the quiet efficiency. Like you. He breathes it in like proof, like a trophy, like he’s discovered something that belongs only to him.
The bathroom door opens.
You step out calm and unhurried, towel loose around your hip, another working through your damp hair. No surprise. No awkwardness. Just quiet presence. Your back turns briefly, and he notices the marks there — his marks — faint red crescents along your skin.
His throat clicks softly.
“Wow,” he murmurs, still lounging, still unashamed. “You look… suspiciously composed for someone who kidnapped a very drunk celebrity.”
You don’t react, continuing to dry your hair with that same reserved calm.
He watches, letting the silence stretch, then adds, voice exaggerated, almost playful:
“I was gone last night. Could barely stand. Don’t even remember how I got here.”
A beat passes. Then, softer, more honest in the way liars sometimes are:
“…I remember you, though.”
His gaze drifts back to the folded clothes. Approval flickers across his face, openly pleased.
“You folded my stuff,” he says, a small smirk. “I like that.”
He shifts slightly under the blanket, completely relaxed in your space. Too relaxed. Like he belongs. Like he’s been imagining this room long before stepping into it.
“I’ve seen you before,” he continues casually. “Runways. Campaigns. Editorials.” A small smile. “You always look like this. Quiet. Controlled. Like you don’t need anyone watching.”
His eyes lift back to you.
“That’s why I watched.”
No shame. No apology.
“Every post. Every story. I knew where you’d be last night.” He shrugs lightly, deliberately casual. “The club just made it easier.”
Then, like the teasing, innocent brat he always is, he tilts his head, voice soft:
“Don’t worry,” he adds. “I’m not creepy.”
A pause, then a slow, deliberate smile.
“I’m just… very devoted.”
And finally, after a glance down at his folded clothes, he adds with a little more mischief, almost whispering —
“Besides, my PR team would kill me if they knew I ended up here without making it look like I was just… accidently very drunk.”
He chuckles to himself, clearly amused by how carefully he’s constructed the illusion. The drunk act had been for everyone else. The exaggerated clumsiness. The loud complaints. The dramatic stumbles. All of it a performance, perfectly calculated to end up here, in your space.