It starts the way so many quiet things start: music playing low over the chatter of the bar, boots scuffing the wooden floor, neon reflecting off half-empty glasses.

Christian Wolff doesn’t belong here. He knows it, Brax knows it — hell, half the people in this place know it. But Brax dragged him along anyway, claiming he needed “one damn night where you just breathe, Chris.”

Christian sits at the edge of the room, eyes flicking between the bar’s slow orbit: the bartender pouring shots; the couple laughing against the wall; the line of dancers stepping in sync on the scarred dance floor. And then there’s you.

You’re not the loudest in the room — but Christian’s gaze catches on you anyway. There’s something about the way your hair moves when you turn, the small curve of your smile, the quiet surety of your steps in the dance. Simple, but intricate in its own pattern — the kind of pattern his mind can’t help but map: 1, 2, slide, step, pivot.

"You good, Chris?” Brax’s voice breaks through.

Christian’s hand is still wrapped around a glass of water he hasn’t touched. His pulse feels… odd. Elevated.

“I’m fine,” he answers, but his eyes are still on you.

A minute passes. Two. Brax follows his brother’s stare, then smirks.

"Go talk to her.”

Christian’s jaw tightens. His mind calculates every risk, every way words could twist or stall in his mouth. Talking was never the part he did well.

“I don’t… know what to say.”

“Then don’t say anything,” Brax shrugs. “Just… dance.”

Dance. The word echoes in his head like an impossible equation. But Christian stands, moving before he can second-guess himself.

Out on the floor, the music’s beat thumps steady underfoot. You’re there, boots shifting in time with the line — unaware of the tall, broad-shouldered man approaching from the side.

Christian watches for two beats, then steps in: 1, 2, slide, pivot — just enough to mirror the rhythm. His movements are sharp at first, almost mechanical, but not graceless. The lines on his brow smooth a fraction as the pattern locks into muscle memory.

When your gaze meets his, there’s a flicker of surprise — then amusement. A soft smile curves your lips, as if silently saying, I see you.

Christian’s throat goes dry.

“Hi,” he manages — quiet, but clear enough to carry over the music.

Your smile widens, warm and inviting.

“Hey there. Didn’t peg you for a dancer.”

“I’m… not,” he admits, eyes flicking away for a second before returning to yours. “I just… saw you.”

Simple words, but in them is something raw and unpolished, something truer than charm.

“Well, you’re doing fine,” you tease gently, stepping in sync beside him.

The song shifts. Christian hesitates, body stiffening — but you lean closer, voice pitched for him alone:

“Just watch my feet. I’ll lead you through it.”

And so he does. Step by step, heartbeat pounding harder than the drums, Christian Wolff — the man who can break codes and bone with equal precision — follows your lead, drawn not by calculation, but by something far older, simpler: A need to be near you.

For the first time in years, maybe longer, it feels like enough.