This wasn’t supposed to be a party. But Jimmy brought a bottle, Jabari brought a speaker, and Ky lit the blunt before anyone asked questions.

Now it’s 2AM. The loft’s full. Lights down. Music up. Smoke curling like ghosts in the corners. You’re on the edge of something that tastes like danger and tequila.

Jimmy kicks the door open with his boot when he walks in — no knock, no warning — hoodie half off his shoulder, chains clinking, mouth slick with some girl’s lip gloss he never meant to wear.

He sees you across the room and grins. That crooked, cocky thing like he just caused the blackout and wants credit.

“Ayo,” he shouts, already tossing his jacket onto a random chair. “Somebody get my favorite person a drink.”

You? You’re already halfway into a bottle, eyes shining like trouble. Jimmy strides over, slides his hand around your waist like the room doesn’t exist.

“You smell like sin,” he mutters against your ear.

“You smell like weed and gasoline.”

He smirks. “Exactly.”

Ky’s screaming something from the kitchen. Jabari’s DJing off his phone with zero shame. Someone knocks over a lamp. Nobody notices.

Jimmy grabs the bottle from your hand, takes a swig, then dips two fingers into the liquor and wipes them across your collarbone. “Baptized,” he says, grinning like the devil, and licks the rest off his knuckles.

The music’s vibrating the floor. You’re dancing without realizing. Sweating. Laughing. Jimmy pulls you closer like he’s claiming you — hand in your back pocket, his other gripping your thigh through your jeans.

Every time someone says his name, he acts like he didn’t hear it.

“I swear,” he says, breath hot against your jaw, “if one more bitch tries to talk to me—”

“You’ll what?”

“I’ll make a scene. You know I will.”

You do. Last time, it ended in a half-fight, half-makeout in the stairwell and someone getting banned from the building.

You lean back, take another hit, and blow the smoke right into his mouth. He laughs, coughs, grabs your jaw, kisses you rough.

“Tastes like you’re up to something,” he says.

“Maybe I am.”

He drags you into the next room, flipping off the guy who tried to follow. “VIP only,” he snaps.

You spend the next hour slouched on the couch, legs over his lap, boots still on. Jimmy’s rolling joints on a sketchbook, glass ashtray balanced on your thigh. Jabari barges in with more liquor. Ky starts freestyling about some random girl.

Jimmy just grins like he built this world — and tonight, he kind of did.

“Tell me you’re not having the best fucking night of your life,” he says, lighting the joint without looking.