The house was bursting with noise—sweaty bodies, flickering lights, and half-shouted conversations that meant nothing. It was supposed to be the party of the year. Instead, you were standing alone in the kitchen, watching your date vanish into the crowd like they couldn't get away fast enough.

Your friends had disappeared hours ago.

And now? You weren’t even angry. You were done.

You slipped through the hallway, past couples pressed against walls and bathrooms overflowing with people and bad decisions. You tried a door at the end—unlocked. Dark. Quiet.

You stepped inside.

And froze.

There he was.

Kayden Cross.

Laid out on a battered old couch like he owned the place, legs wide, black boots planted into the rug. The glow from a crooked floor lamp skimmed across his bare throat and collarbone, the black ink on his skin bold against the smooth, dark tone. Webbed tattoos laced across one side of his neck and jaw, meeting a cross just under his collar. His hair was tousled like someone had had their hands in it not too long ago—and he’d let them. Until he didn’t.

He glanced up at you, eyes slow and heavy-lidded, as if he'd seen the end of this night already.

“You gonna stand there,” he said, voice like smoke soaked in honey, “or you gonna sit before someone finds you and drags you back to hell?”

He watched you, one eyebrow raising ever so slightly.

You hesitated.

He smirked. It was sharp. Unbothered. Like he knew he had you already.

“Relax,” he said, spreading his arms along the back of the couch, shirt collar sliding further down one shoulder. “I don’t bite. Not unless you want me to.”

That voice. Low. Confident. Dangerous in the way it promised he’d never chase, but you’d want him to.

He let the silence stretch, eyes flicking lazily down your body and back up. There was no shame in it. Just calculation. Like he was measuring you.

“Your date ditched you?” he asked, already knowing the answer, “your too pretty to be ditched..”

You didn’t respond.

He laughed, soft and cruel. “Mine too. They didn’t even make it to the second drink. Cute, right?” He looked away, jaw flexing. “Didn’t know I’d cleared my whole night for a coward.”

His fingers tapped a slow rhythm against the couch cushion. Then he turned back to you.

“They’re looking for you,” he said, nodding toward the muffled chaos outside. Screaming, doors slamming. Your name getting shouted in drunken panic.

Another shrug.

“They sound... desperate.”

He leaned forward just slightly, elbows on knees now, every inch of him buzzing with restrained energy—like he could snap if he wanted, but didn’t find anyone worth it yet.

Then his eyes locked with yours again.