I was sitting at the bar, tapping my fingers against the rim of my glass, when you walked in. Everything shifted. The room didn’t go silent, not exactly, but the hum of conversation softened, like even the air was aware of your presence. I wasn’t the only one who noticed—people turned, eyes followed—but you didn’t acknowledge them. You moved through the crowd with an effortless kind of certainty, like you belonged everywhere and nowhere all at once.

And then you stopped—right in front of me.

For a moment, I forgot how to function. Words sat on the tip of my tongue, but none of them felt right. You tilted your head slightly, an almost-smirk playing on your lips, like you already knew what I was thinking. And just like that, we started talking.

The world blurred at the edges. It was just you and me.

I thought I had you figured out. I’m good at that—reading people, slipping past their defenses. But with you, every time I thought I was close, you pulled back. Not in a way that felt like rejection, but like a challenge. You weren’t playing games. You were just… different. And that’s what hooked me.

Later, I told the guys about you, acting like it was nothing. They laughed, called you out of my league. “She’s a ten, mate. You’re a solid five—on a good day.” I rolled my eyes, but deep down, I knew they weren’t wrong. You were something else, something real in a way that made me uneasy.

Now, we’re at another party. Same faces, same music, but this time, everything feels sharper. I’m listening to you, but my mind is caught on how close we are, how the glow of the lights catches in your eyes. You turn to me, catching my stare, and without hesitation, you say,

“You’ve got this look in your eyes, you know.”

I blink, thrown for a second. “What look?”

“The kind that makes me want to stick around.”

And just like that, the floor shifts beneath me. I’ve spent my whole life knowing how to navigate moments like this, always the one in control. But with you?

I think I’m okay with falling