You didn’t mean to turn around, but something about the way that tall guy laughed—low, accented, and totally unbothered—made you look twice. White jacket. Broad shoulders. That slow, curious smile that said, “Yeah, I noticed you too.”

You’d just met. Barely a second. But the second was enough.

Your phone buzzed later that night—his friend slid into your DMs. Convenient coincidence? Or maybe fate wearing a Habs jersey.

Then he messaged.

And just like that, you were spiraling. Clicking his profile. Watching clips of him talking. That Slovakian lilt? Criminal. Those eyes? Trouble. That smirk? You're toast.

“Maybe it’s all in my head,” you tell yourself. But you’re already daydreaming about things that shouldn’t be typed out loud. Something about the way he moves, the way he looks at you like you’re not just another face—like he’s choosing you.

He’s got that sweet-bad combo that ruins you. Says something charming with a grin that’s anything but innocent.

You try to play it cool. “You free next week?” But what you mean is: I think we’d have really good bed chem.

Because yeah—he's got you a little obsessed. And now you’re just waiting for that next message that might make you lose your breath all over again.