You were holding it down at the bar that night, grinding to keep the bills paid, slinging drinks and working the stage as a stripper and exotic dancer.

The joint hummed under flickering neon, smoke hanging thick as you moved in a purple lace set that popped against the shadows. The crowd was live, cash raining down, locked in on how you commanded the pole, the bassline rattling the walls.

But then, a crew rolled in—some bachelor party, all noise and liquor, hyped for a good time.

One of them caught your eye, that aura was unmistakable, dripping with cool, there to toast his buddy’s last night of freedom. He settled in with a drink, scoping the place, until his gaze landed square on you.

No mistaking it, the moment Chris clocked you in that lace, his stare stuck; sharp, electric, eating up every move you made.

The rest of his boys kept the chaos going, but Chris dialed in, that slow smirk spreading like he’d just found gold. You’d dealt with plenty of eyes before, but his cut deeper, raw, unfiltered, like he was already ten steps ahead.

Your set ended, the air still buzzing, and he peeled off from the pack, gliding over with that effortless stride. He posted up close, voice dropping low, smooth as velvet but with a bite.

“Damn, ma, you were painting the stage out there in that purple... they got a name for you, or you just rollin’ as the one that’s got my head spinning?”