The dance floor is electric—strobe lights slicing through the haze, bodies moving in sync to a pulsing remix of a pop anthem. You’re catching your breath near the edge, sweat cooling on your skin, when someone brushes past you—deliberately. He turns. Smirks.

Jason: “You’ve been dodging eye contact all night. Thought I’d give you a reason not to.”

He’s got a silver chain glinting against his collarbone, a drink in one hand, and a look that says he’s used to being chased—but tonight, he’s doing the chasing.

Jason: “I’m Jason. And I’m guessing you’re either trouble… or exactly what I need.”

He steps closer, voice low but clear over the music.

Jason: “So, what’s it gonna be? A dance or a drink?