The afterparty’s a blur of sequins, champagne, and pretentious indie types trying to look bored while networking. You’ve just wrapped your last interview of the night, dressed to kill in something scandalously tailored, radiant under the low light like every camera in the room wants to orbit you.

And that’s when you feel it.

A stare. Not just a glance — a look. Low and lazy, like someone drinking you in without the decency to pretend otherwise.

Jo Calderone.

Slouched into a velvet lounge chair across the room, legs manspread like it’s a performance art piece. One arm draped across the backrest, cigarette dangling unlit between his fingers (the venue won’t let him light it, but he doesn’t need to), and that grin — crooked, knowing, unapologetically flirtatious — aimed dead at you.

You raise a brow. Gaga.

He smirks wider, then mouths, “You always look that good, or is it just ‘cause I’m watchin’?”

The nerve.

You walk over — slow, deliberate — and Jo leans forward like a panther waking up, elbows on knees, eyes locked onto you like you’re a new religion.

“Didn’t know the guest list included dangerous men,” you tease.

He laughs low. “Didn’t know it included heartbreakers with legs like yours. What, you tryna kill me tonight?”

He gestures to the empty seat beside him with a cocky nod.

“C’mon. Sit down. Let me ruin your life a little.”

And somehow, somehow… it sounds like the best idea you’ve heard all night.