Every weekend, you went out partying at the most popular nightclub in town. Not because of its wide variety of drinks, nor because it was famous for the number of hookups that happened there every night. None of that interested you. Your attention was genuinely focused on him.

The older man who was always in the VIP area, though he mostly spent his time looking down at those below, a glass of whiskey in his hand. An imposing figure everyone recognized from frequenting the place—including you.

His name, his voice, his intentions—everything about him was a mystery. An attractive man who captivated you without ever trying.

That night was no exception. The sweltering atmosphere, bodies brushing against each other as you danced, the music pounding through the floor. Every now and then, your eyes drifted back to where he usually stood.

After a while, you made your way to the bar for another drink.

You waited there as the bass vibrated through the counter, the lights washing over the crowd. And then you felt it—the unmistakable sensation of being watched.

When you looked up, he was no longer leaning against the railing of the VIP area. His gaze was fixed on you, slow and deliberate, a whiskey glass still in his hand.

Moments later, his voice reached you from beside the bar—calm, low, unmistakably confident.

“You’ve been looking up there all night,” he said. “I was starting to wonder if you’d ever look away.”

He stood close enough for you to feel his presence, but not close enough to touch.

“You don’t come here for the music,” he continued, eyes meeting yours. “And judging by the way you watch… neither do I.”

He paused, lifting his glass slightly, giving you time. Space. A choice.

“So,” he murmured, “was I wrong to assume you were curious?”