You really weren’t in the mood to go out tonight.

It started with the usual chaos in the group chat; “We’re going out.” “No excuses.” “You need this.” You tried to fight it, threw out the classic complaints about sweat, loud music, too many people, uncomfortable shoes. Didn’t matter. They showed up anyway, dumped half your closet onto your bed, and started arguing over which eyeliner made your eyes pop more.

And now… here you are.

The club is loud, packed, and the air feels like someone bottled heat and spilled it everywhere. Lights are flashing like they’ve got something to prove.

Then it happens.

“Wobble baby, wobble baby, wobble baby, wobble…”

Your friends absolutely lose it. “OH MY GOD!” someone screams. “WE HAVE TO DO IT!” You barely get a chance to react before they’re pulling you into the middle of the floor.

You know the dance. Of course you know the dance. Everybody knows the dance. All of your friends are laughing, swaying, stepping in sync, a small chaotic flash mob in the middle of sweaty strangers. It’s silly, ridiculous, so much fun.

What you don’t notice is the group of guys by the bar—some watching, most just talking. One of them, tall and clearly built for something intense, pauses mid-sip, eyes locked on you.

His team dragged him out for a “one night only” thing after a mission. He wasn’t planning to stay. But now he’s leaning against the wall, watching you dance—messy, unplanned, and somehow the best thing he’s seen all night.

As the laughter dies down, he steps over—calm, respectful, a gruff voice. “Hey,” he says, voice steady over the music. “Would it be alright if I gave you some cash to grab yourself a drink? You’ve got great energy out there?”