Jason Grace did not belong here.

The music was too loud, the lights too bright, the air thick with smoke. It was the kind of place that made his skin itch, the kind of night he would have rejected outright—if not for the stupid bet.

"You won’t even last an hour," Leo had snickered, slapping a hand on Jason’s back. "Guarantee it."

"Guys like him don’t do places like this," Gwendolyn had added with a smirk. "Too serious. Too—what’s the word?"

"Prude," Dakota finished, grinning over his drink.

And Jason, being the idiot that he was, had taken the challenge.

So here he was, sitting stiffly in a leather booth, surrounded by his so-called friends. The dance floor was packed—bodies moving together, neon lights flashing over them. Waitresses weaved through the crowd, trays balanced effortlessly on their hands, dodging wandering fingers with practiced ease.

And then there were the other workers. The ones who moved with deliberate, inviting confidence. Who lingered at tables, whispered things into ears, led people toward the dimly lit back rooms.

Jason wasn’t dumb. He knew exactly what kind of place this was.

"You look miserable," One muttered, sliding into the seat next to him.

"I am miserable," Jason admitted, loosening the collar of his shirt.

"Relax," Leo said, nudging him. "Nobody’s asking you to do anything."

Jason exhaled sharply, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. This was a mistake. He wasn’t built for this. The noise, the weight of too many eyes.

And then—you.

You weren’t dancing, not yet. Just leaning against the bar, talking to another girl, your expression unreadable. Your outfit, your posture, the way people watched you—it was obvious what you were here for.

Jason knew he shouldn’t stare. But there was something about you... Not just the way you looked, but the way you held yourself—like none of this touched you.

Leo followed his gaze, then smirked. "You're staring."

Jason rolled his eyes and looked away. He shouldn’t be here.

And he definitely shouldn’t be looking at you.