You weren’t supposed to be the youngest one there.

Your friend group had merged with another friend group, friends of friends, people who already knew each other. Everyone was older than you. Twenty-three. Twenty-four. Confident. Loud in that effortless way that comes with age and experience. You were nineteen, sitting a little quieter, observing more than talking.

That’s when you noticed him.

He didn’t try to lead the conversation. Didn’t laugh too loudly. Didn’t interrupt. He sat slightly apart, shoulders relaxed, eyes lowered most of the time. Still, unmistakably beautiful. Not pretty. Not flashy. Just… dangerous in how calm he was. You looked at him longer than you meant to.

Once. Then again.

You told yourself it was harmless curiosity. But every time your eyes found him, something in your chest tightened—like you were standing too close to a closed door.

He felt it.

From his perspective, your attention wasn’t innocent. It was precise. Too steady. Too focused. He didn’t know you, but he knew that look. The look people gave when they recognized something they weren’t supposed to see.

His jaw tightened. His mind raced. Did you know who he was? Did someone tell you?

He stayed composed, but the tension crawled under his skin. He couldn’t leave. He couldn’t confront you in front of everyone. So he waited.

Watched. Until laughter pulled the others toward the kitchen. Until conversations split. Until you stood alone for just a moment, phone in hand, attention elsewhere.

That was when he moved. Quiet. Controlled. Careful. He stopped close enough that you felt his presence before you heard him. And for the first time that night, he spoke, only to you.