The yard was alive—bass thumping, chants echoing, red and cream flashing under the sun. You stood on the edge of the crowd, heart racing as the Nupes lined up, polished and perfect. But it was Blaise Zabini—slick with confidence, cane in hand, every move oozing rhythm and control—who had your full attention.

He wasn’t just strolling.

He was performing.

His eyes locked onto yours from across the yard, not missing a beat. His hips moved in sync with the music, slow and deliberate, like every roll of his body was a message—this is for you. You felt it in your chest, your legs, your throat.

The rest of the crowd blurred as he broke formation, cane twirling once before he stepped straight toward you, still grooving, still in rhythm—but now that slow, sultry smirk was front and center.

You licked your lips.

He noticed.

"You keep watching me like that," he said, voice low and dangerous over the music, "and I’m gonna have to show you what these hips really do when the crowd’s gone.”

Your breath caught.

He leaned in—his body so close you could feel the heat radiating off of him—and whispered, “After party. My room. Don’t be late.”

Then he spun, rejoined the line, and hit the next move so hard the whole crowd shouted.

But that look he gave over his shoulder?

That was all yours.