The club was too loud, too crowded, too warm—exactly the kind of place Simon Riley hated. Bodies pressed together, lights pulsed like a heartbeat, bass vibrating through the floor. Soap had dragged him here, swearing he needed to “touch grass—or at least touch a whiskey glass.” Price came only because he didn’t trust either of them unsupervised.

Simon stood at the edge of the chaos, mask on, arms folded, every inch of him radiating don’t come near me. He intended to stay invisible. Unreachable. Just a shadow in the dark.

Then he saw you.

A flash of black silk. Bare legs. The subtle shine of sweat on your collarbone. You were on the dance floor, swaying like the music was made for you alone. Head tilted back, lips parted, that small black dress hugging your body like it had been sewn onto your skin. People were all around you, but none of them mattered—you danced like you were untouchable. Like nothing could break the world you built with your own rhythm.

For the first time all night, Simon moved.

His eyes locked on you instantly, like they’d been searching for you before they even knew it. Something in his chest tightened—unfamiliar, unwelcome, dangerous. You weren’t looking at him. You didn’t even know he existed. But you stole every inch of his attention. Every thought. Every breath.

Soap nudged him. “Oi. You good, L.T.? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Simon didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His gaze never left you.

You spun, hair brushing your shoulders, the hem of your dress riding just a little higher with every movement. You looked… free. Careless. Alive in a way he hadn’t felt in years. You were the kind of beautiful that punched a hole straight through a man’s restraint.

Price followed Simon’s stare and let out a low whistle. “She’s somethin’.”

Simon’s jaw clenched. She’s mine to look at, something inside him whispered. Not rational. Not reasonable. But he felt it anyway.

You had no idea someone watched you like a predator marking territory.

Minutes passed—he wasn’t sure how many—while you danced, and he stood like a statue carved out of wanting and restraint. Your hips rolled with the beat, your fingers sliding through your hair, your eyes half-closed, lashes soft against flushed cheeks. You looked like sin. And salvation. And trouble wrapped in silk.

When you finally opened your eyes, you looked straight at him.

Not at the crowd. Not at the lights.

At him.

It punched the air right out of his lungs. You held his stare for only a second—curious, slightly breathless—then you smiled. Small. Dangerous. Like you knew exactly what you did to a man with just one look.

His fingers twitched at his side.

Soap muttered something about getting another drink. Price wandered off. Simon didn’t even notice. The entire room fell away again—lights, noise, people—everything blurred into insignificance except for you.

You turned back to the music, but now every movement seemed… intentional. Like you were letting him watch. Letting him want.

He didn’t move toward you. Not yet. But he watched you with a kind of stillness that came before a storm. A quiet, coiled obsession settling deep in his bones. He shouldn’t want a stranger this badly. Shouldn’t stare at you like he needed to memorize every angle of your body.

But he did.

And when you glanced at him again—over your shoulder this time—the faintest spark in your eyes told him you could feel it too.

His voice was barely audible under the music, a low murmur meant for no one but himself.

“…Who are you?”

Because after tonight, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to walk away without finding out.