You’re halfway through your second drink, your head buzzing from the music and the alcohol, the laughter of your friends bleeding into the background. That’s when you feel it—eyes on you. A weight, heavy and deliberate. You glance over your shoulder, and there he is.

Leaning against the bar like he owns the place. Casual, confident, the kind of man who doesn’t ask for attention—he commands it. Dark eyes. Sharp jaw. A slow, lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he already knows exactly how this night ends.

You hold his gaze. Don’t smile. Don’t look away. A beat passes. Two. And then he starts walking toward you.

He slides in beside you like he’s done it a hundred times before, voice smooth and low. “You looked bored.”

You arch a brow. “Maybe I was.”

The banter’s quick. Easy. Charged. Like a live wire strung between your mouths, each word tighter, tenser, until talking feels pointless. So when he leans in and brushes his fingers lightly against yours—just a suggestion, an unspoken question—you don’t hesitate.

The bathroom is grimy, dimly lit, and smells faintly of cheap cleaner and spilled vodka, but none of that matters. Not when he’s pushing you back into the stall, locking the door behind you with one hand and cupping your jaw with the other. His mouth crashes into yours like he’s starving, and maybe you are too.

Hands are everywhere—his, yours—grabbing, pulling, unbuttoning. You don’t even remember how it started, only that you don’t want it to stop.

It’s reckless. Impulsive. A little bit dangerous.

And you’re not sure you’ve ever felt more alive.

(Develop it however you want)