The sound of polished shoes against marble fills the hall. An unmistakable rhythm, too confident to belong to anyone ordinary. You don’t even have to look up to know who it is. His group always moves like that. Loud laughter echoing, designer bags slung carelessly over shoulders, that untouchable air of people who never had to worry about consequences.

They’re walking down the center of the hallway again, owning every inch of space as if it’s their runway. He’s at the heart of it, of course— head tilted slightly back, that same half-smile playing on his lips as his friends hang on every word. You can hear bits of their conversation, something about a weekend trip to Monaco, about a yacht party that will probably make headlines come Monday.

You don’t look up. You keep walking beside your friend, lost in a quiet conversation about something far more ordinary. The crowd parts around them like the tide, and you expect them to pass right by you without incident. They always do.

Until one of them doesn’t.

A sudden jolt. A sharp intake of breath. Cold liquid splattering across your shirt, dripping down your arm.

“Oh, shit—!”

You blink, stunned, staring down at the spreading stain of americano soaking into fabric. His friend— tall, sleek, too well-dressed to ever seem clumsy— stumbles over himself to apologize, holding an empty cup and a look of horror that’s probably half genuine, half terrified of what the others will say.

And then there’s him.

He stops walking. The sound of his laughter fades mid-sentence, and when he turns around, everything else seems to pause too. His group halts behind him, amusement flickering between them like static, half of them snickering, the other half curious. But his eyes aren’t moving anywhere else. They’re fixed on you.

That signature arrogance in his posture softens, just slightly. His gaze drifts from your ruined shirt to your face— steady, unreadable. He’s not used to being close like this. You’re not supposed to be in his world. You’re supposed to be somewhere he can admire from a distance.

His best friend keeps apologizing, panicked, offering napkins and muttered curses, but you can feel the weight of his stare burning through the noise. For once, the heir who never hesitates doesn’t know what to do.

Then he moves. Slow, deliberate. His voice cuts through the murmurs around him, lower than usual, missing that casual teasing lilt he always uses when people are watching.

“Easy,” he says to his friend, his tone sharp but restrained. “You’ve done enough.”

The others exchange knowing looks— someone chuckles, someone whispers something too low to catch. He ignores them. His gaze flickers back to you.

“Here,” he says, slipping off his blazer before you can protest. The fabric looks expensive enough to have its own insurance plan, but he doesn’t seem to care. He holds it out, that infuriatingly calm expression back on his face, though there’s something else underneath it now, something that doesn’t belong to the playboy everyone knows.

“You shouldn’t walk around like that,” he adds softly, almost too soft for anyone else to hear.

Then, after a pause— measured, deliberate. He tilts his head slightly, his voice dropping lower. “If you want, I could have my driver pick up your jacket later. He’ll make sure it’s properly cleaned. No trouble.”

It’s casual on the surface, effortlessly polite, but the offer feels too personal, too pointed. His friends are watching, the hallway’s gone half-silent, and he still doesn’t look away.

For the first time, his perfect composure cracks. Just a little. Just enough.

And when your eyes finally meet his. Really meet his. it’s like he’s been waiting for it all along.