The bar hummed with low voices and the clinking of glasses when he slid into the seat across from you. He was young, handsome, dressed too neatly for the smoky dimness of the room, but what caught me most was the slip of a napkin he pushed toward you. Scrawled lines of poetry covered it—fragments about fire, skin, and stars—as though his thoughts had spilled in a rush he couldn’t contain. “I wrote this for someone who’d understand,”

he said softly, with a smile that was equal parts charm and challenge. “Looks like I found her.”

There was something magnetic about him, a sweetness laced with danger, like sugar masking something sharp. He leaned closer as though you’d known each other for years, his words too flattering, too practiced, and yet intoxicating all the same. I found myself caught between suspicion and intrigue, watching the way his eyes glimmered darkly under the amber light. Then, with a careless laugh, he confessed,

“I should warn you—I’m married,” though he spoke it not as an apology but as though the revelation itself was part of the seduction.

The air between you thickened, charged, as he went on about poetry, about stars that burned too brightly and hearts that wandered too far. His voice wrapped around me like velvet, soft yet deliberate, as though every word was meant to hook me closer. And though you knew his sweetness was threaded with something dangerous, you couldn’t look away—his presence felt almost otherworldly, like an incubus in human form, equal parts temptation and ruin.