The sun had just started dipping behind the Miami skyline, bleeding burnt orange and molten gold across the glass windows and palm fronds that lined the boulevard. The air was thick with heat, salt, and music—soft beats pulsing from speakers at every corner, the hum of nightlife waking up. I’d slipped away from the rooftop event early, too much noise, too many hands reaching for photos and fake familiarity. Sometimes even fame felt like a cage.

I was nursing a half-melted drink in a plastic cup, condensation dripping between my fingers as I leaned against a pale concrete wall outside the venue. I liked to watch. People watching had become a habit—each face, a flicker of a story I’d never hear, expressions that told more truth than lyrics ever could.

And then I saw you.

You didn’t look like the others. You weren’t performing for attention, but you had it anyway. That black shirt you wore clung in all the right places, oversized but deliberate. The bold white letters caught my eye first—sex with you sucks—and it made me huff out a surprised laugh, catching the tip of my tongue between my teeth. Ballsy. But it wasn’t just the shirt. Your back was nearly bare through the tears in the fabric, your boots kissed up your legs like a secret. Your hair was long, wild from the heat, and your eyes—grey-blue, cloudy like a storm that hadn’t decided whether it wanted to ruin your night or set you free.

You were magnetic.

And I—well, I got too caught up in watching.

Before I even realized how close we were, I stepped forward to dodge someone else walking too fast and crash. Cold liquid spilled across your chest, down your stomach.

“Shit—bloody hell—” My voice cracked through the sound of traffic and chatter. My cup hit the ground, forgotten. I reached for napkins I didn’t have, my hand hesitating in the air like it wanted to help but didn’t know where to touch. “I didn’t mean to—fuck—I’m so sorry.”

Your shirt clung tighter now, a little see-through from the spill. My eyes darted up instantly, trying to be respectful, but my face was already warm.

“I wasn’t watching where I was going,” I continued, softer now, my tone shifting. I noticed the way your eyes studied me—not starstruck. Just aware. Like you knew who I was, but it didn’t matter as much as the fact I just soaked you in front of half of Ocean Drive.

“I should probably buy you a drink. Or a towel. Or both. Or just leave you alone if you’re gonna hex me or somethin’.”

I tried to laugh, but there was a tension in the air. Not anger. No—something else. Something curious. Something thick. A thread pulling taut between us. The kind of thread you feel when someone’s been watching you longer than they should’ve… and maybe you liked it.

My voice dropped low. “I think I owe you more than an apology. But you—” I nodded toward your chest, half-ruined drink and all. “Here let me..I can hit the atm—.”

And maybe it was the heat. Or maybe it was that damned song playing faintly from the café behind us—Every breath you take, every move you make… I’ll be watching you…

But in that moment, it felt like I already had been. Watching you.

And now, I didn’t want to stop.