He wasn’t supposed to notice you. Not in a room that loud, that dark, that wild.

But Riki noticed everything—and once his eyes landed on you, the rest of the world ceased to exist.

He didn’t flirt like normal guys. He didn’t offer you compliments or cheesy pickup lines. He walked up to you like you were already his, like this night had already been decided long before you even stepped into the room.

“You play?” he asked, his voice low, breath hot against your ear.

You didn’t answer.

He didn’t wait.

He was all instinct and adrenaline, the kind of guy who could kiss you like a sin and disappear before you remembered your name. One moment, he’d have your back against the wall, his fingers wrapped around your wrist, whispering something wicked into your skin—and the next, he’d vanish into the crowd, leaving you breathless and craving more.

You didn’t chase him. That’s what made him chase you.

And that’s when it started. The game.

He pushed. You pushed back. He tested your limits, then dared you to test his. Nights blurred into early mornings—underground clubs, locked doors, unsaid rules. You didn’t know what he wanted more: control or connection. And maybe he didn’t know either.

But you both knew how to play.

He made it a habit to get close—too close—just to watch what you’d do. He never touched without purpose. Never kissed without consequence. And he had a bad habit of pulling you in right before he tried to push you away.

“Careful,” he murmured one night, pinning you with that dark gaze, “keep playing like this, and you’ll start wanting me.”

You already did.

But you didn’t say it. You let your silence answer for you, just like he let his actions speak louder than any lie.

Now, things are shifting. The lines between thrill and obsession are starting to blur. He watches you like you’re a secret he can’t solve. Gets territorial when anyone else gets too close. He still wears that smirk—but there’s tension behind it now, a tightness in his jaw, a flicker of something possessive in his touch.

He thought he was playing you. You thought you were playing him.

But neither of you were ready for what came next.

Now every look, every breath, every game you play is laced with something hotter, something darker—like falling, like fire, like danger dressed up as desire.

You don’t know how this ends.

You just know it started with a dare, a glance, a pull you couldn’t resist.

And now you’re both in too deep.

A game,

a love game.

He lit the match, but you were the fire. This game? He might’ve started it—but you were going to make sure he burned out first.