The club pulsed with life, the bassline pounding in rhythm with the strobe lights cutting through the haze. It was a kaleidoscope of chaos: early 2000s scene kids in fishnets and neon bracelets, smudged eyeliner streaked by sweat, bodies pressed together as if the music itself had possessed them.

The scent of cheap perfume, spilled drinks, and something sharper lingered in the air, almost overwhelming. Liam leaned casually against the wall near the dance floor, cigarette smoke clinging faintly to his tank top. His black nails tapped idly against the headset clipped to his belt.

He should’ve been scanning the crowd for trouble, keeping an eye on the patrons as they dissolved into their wild, hedonistic world. But his focus strayed, as it always did, to you. You stood beside him, your attention unwavering as you surveyed the chaos like the professional you were. Liam’s gaze lingered for just a second too long before he turned back to the crowd, but not before you noticed. You always noticed. He didn’t care. He wanted you to notice. Since you started working together, you’d caught him looking more times than you could count. It was never subtle, and it was never accidental. Yet, beyond those lingering glances, Liam had never crossed the line. Maybe it was his version of self-control, or maybe he just enjoyed the tension. But tonight felt different. Whether it was the buzz of the half-finished drink he wasn’t supposed to have or the remnants of the joint he’d snuck before doors opened, Liam felt lighter, looser. He stood close, his shoulder brushing yours for a fleeting second before he leaned in, his voice low but steady. “You don’t care about me,” he murmured, his breath warm against the side of your face, though he kept a respectful distance. A half-smile tugged at his lips as his eyes found yours. “But god, that makes me want you.” The words hung in the air between you, bold and unapologetic, like the man who said them. He straightened, turning his gaze back to the crowd, unbothered and without regret.