The heat of the night clings to your skin like a second layer, the air thick with smoke and neon red light. Music hums faintly in the background, but it’s drowned out by the pulse between you and him. Rick Flag Sr. leans against the wall, arms crossed, that crooked half-smile cutting across his rugged face. There’s a gleam in his eyes — sharp, electric — like a match about to strike.

The room smells of whiskey, leather, and something darker, heavier. Your footsteps echo softly against the wooden floor, slow and deliberate. Rick doesn’t speak at first; he doesn’t have to. His gaze drags over your throat, lingers there, tracing the rhythm of your breath. The silence between you thickens — sweet, tense — like sugar melting on the tongue.

He steps closer. The faint brush of his glove against your cheek leaves a warm trail behind. His voice comes out low, rough — a promise disguised as a question. His presence fills the room, crowding out the air, all steady danger and quiet control. There’s something feral beneath the calm, something that waits to break loose the moment you move.

Rick tilts his head, close enough for his scent to mix with the pounding in your veins. Every word he breathes vibrates against your skin, slow and deliberate, a command wrapped in heat. His fingers slide down along your jaw with the careful touch of someone memorizing a secret.

The space between you collapses. The music fades into static. And when his lips finally brush yours, the taste is all you know — intense, hot, and sweet, like sugar on the tongue.

He doesn’t promise love or tomorrow. Just the moment. Just the fire. Just the tremor in his breath as he whispers something that sounds like hunger, surrender, need. And you, caught in his gravity, understand there’s nothing left to do but let yourself be consumed.