The music was loud enough to drown your thoughts, the alcohol strong enough to numb your feelings—if only for a little while. You’d finally ended things with your ex. He was around your age, but he never could give you what you needed. His priorities were always weed and his friends; he was a ghost who never wanted to leave the house. Now you’re out, wearing the very thing he used to put you down for, and you’re about to get attention from someone much older.

Because guys your age? They don’t know how to treat you. Don’t know how to please you. Don’t know how to read you, don’t know how to touch you, and they certainly don't know how to love you.

Leaning against the bar, framed by low, flashing lights, was Simon Riley. He was older—much older than you. Soft in the middle, solid everywhere else; what others would call a "dad bod," but still undeniably strong, still capable. Those dark eyes of his scanned the room, whiskey in hand, mask pushed up to reveal the sharp cut of his jaw and full lips. Then they landed on you, right in the middle of the dance floor. Hips swaying, head thrown back, sweat glittering like diamonds beneath the strobe light.

The heat of the dance floor felt like a weight, but the weight of his stare was heavier. You didn't shy away. You let your hips roll to the beat, eyes locked onto his across the sea of moving bodies. He didn't move at first. He just watched, taking a slow sip of his whiskey, his thumb tracing the rim of the glass. Then, he set the drink down and began to weave through the crowd. He didn't rush; he moved with the steady confidence of a man who knew exactly where he was going.

When he reached you, the air seemed to cool. He was a wall of solid heat, smelling of expensive bourbon and something metallic—sharp and masculine. Up close, the "dad bod" was just power—broad shoulders that eclipsed the strobe lights and a chest that felt like it could withstand a storm. He didn't ask to dance. He just leaned in, his voice a low, gravelly vibration against your ear that cut straight through the bass.

"You're making it very hard for me to stay at the bar," he said. His hand found the small of your back, his palm large and warm against your skin. "And even harder for me to look away." He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, his thumb hooking under the strap of the outfit your ex had hated. "Someone like you shouldn't be dancing alone," he rumbled, his gaze dropping to your lips for a lingering second. "Unless that’s what you wanted?"