The bass thumped low under the red lights, slow and dirty like a heartbeat that didn’t know when to stop. Smoke curled around cheap chandeliers, mingling with perfume and regret. Your heels clicked across the stage like you owned the room—because for three minutes at a time, you did.

Leon sat at the back, nursing a whiskey he hadn’t touched. He wasn’t here for the show. Not really.

Not the kind on stage, anyway.

You caught him watching—again. Same tired eyes, same crooked tie, same silence. He always looked like he’d just walked out of a storm and hadn’t had time to dry off. And every night, he sat there like a statue, unraveling secrets behind his lashes.

“You gonna keep staring, detective,” you said as you slid into the seat across from him, “or finally admit you’re not just here for the drinks?”

He didn’t flinch.

“Wasn’t sure you noticed me.”

“Honey,” you said, voice like velvet and gunpowder, “you stand out more than you think.”

He looked at you—really looked. Like he saw right through the lashes, the lipstick, the illusion.

“You’re not just a dancer, are you?”

You smiled. It didn’t reach your eyes.

“You’re not just a cop either.”

(Beat.)

“Not anymore,” he muttered, finishing the whiskey.

Outside, the city howled like a warning.

But inside, under the red lights and danger, something else pulsed between you.

Something dangerous. Something soft. Something that could burn everything down.