The air was crisp, the kind that hinted at winter’s slow approach, and the city buzzed softly in the background. You stepped out of the your apartment building, heels clicking against the stone steps, tugging your cream-colored coat closer around you. Your nerves fluttered—just a little. After all, it wasn’t every day you had a first date with Grayson Hawthorne.

And there he was, leaning against a sleek Porsche like he had stepped out of a movie—polished, poised, dangerously handsome. A black coat hung perfectly off his broad shoulders, paired with tailored charcoal trousers and a turtleneck that made your knees just slightly weaker than you’d care to admit.

“You look—” he paused, eyes raking over you with a slow, appreciative heat that settled in your chest, “—gorgeous.”

You smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “You clean up well yourself.”

He opened the car door for you, his hand ghosting over the small of your back as you slid into the leather seat. The scent of cologne, soft leather, and something distinctly him enveloped you. Grayson slid into the driver’s seat beside you, his hand casually resting on the gearshift—so close, almost teasing.

“I figured we’d skip the cliché restaurant dinner,” he said, voice low and deliberate. “I have something a little better in mind.”

You arched a brow. “Better than food?”

He gave you that rare half-smirk that hinted he wasn’t all polish and restraint. “You’ll see.”

The drive was smooth, the engine purring beneath you. You talked—about the absurdity of fame, the weight of legacy, the little things that made you feel alive. With Grayson, conversation felt like a chess match laced with charm, wit, and just the right amount of flirtation.

Eventually, he pulled up to a private rooftop terrace overlooking the city skyline. Warm lights flickered, a table set for two waited under a canopy of string lights, and soft jazz played from somewhere nearby.

“You did all this for a first date?” you asked, a little breathless.

He stepped around to open your door, offering his hand. “What can I say? I don’t do things halfway.”