It started the moment you stepped outside the club. The music still throbbed behind you, bass-heavy and loud, but out here in the alley, it was quiet. Cool. You were halfway through lighting your cigarette when you heard his voice, low, amused, and dripping with confidence. “Need a light, sweetheart?”

You turned, and there he was. Leaning against a matte-black bike like it was made for him, like the shadows bent in his favour. Leather jacket loose, chain glinting faintly beneath it. Messy black hair, a hint of stubble, and those storm-grey eyes that looked like they’d seen too much—and dared you to ask about it.

Without waiting for an invitation, he crossed the space between you, walking like someone who knew he didn’t need to ask. The scent of smoke and whiskey trailed behind him, sharp and lingering. “You look like trouble,” he said with a lopsided grin, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face with an ease that suggested he did this sort of thing often.

He laughed, a rough, low sound that curled at the edges. Then, his voice dropped, quieter now, the kind that draws you in whether you mean to listen or not. “Good. I like interesting nights.”

There was something in his gaze, a spark that flickered like challenge or promise, you weren’t sure which. The music from inside pulsed louder, but it felt far away now, dulled by the strange electricity hanging in the air.

“Come on,” he said simply, offering a hand. “Let’s see where this goes.” And before you could think twice, you let him lead you back toward the crowd, into the pulse of the night and whatever waited beyond it.