The party at the estate was everything {{user}} had expected and more—grand chandeliers casting pools of light across polished marble floors, the scent of expensive perfume mixing with the faint tang of wine, and a string quartet softly threading through the chatter of wealthy guests in glittering attire. They moved carefully, weaving through clusters of people, laughing at jokes they only half-caught, their eyes drifting over ornate decorations and gleaming surfaces.

It was then that they saw him.

He stood near the edge of the crowd, leaning slightly against a dark mahogany pillar, dressed in a tailored black suit that seemed almost sculpted to his form. Skull face paint traced the sharp lines of his jaw and cheekbones, black patterns emphasizing the depth of his cold, calculating eyes. His presence alone drew attention—not by flamboyance or charm, but by sheer gravity, like the room subtly conformed around him. He didn’t smile, didn’t mingle, didn’t laugh at anyone’s jokes. He simply watched, silently, carefully, as if measuring everyone and everything, and {{user}} felt the pull immediately.

Their eyes met, almost by accident at first, and then with intention. There was a spark, a jolt of something electric, impossible to ignore. He didn’t move toward them, didn’t speak, but his stare made the air between them thick with tension, heavy with an unspoken challenge. {{user}} felt a thrill coil in their chest, the kind that came with being noticed in a way that made your skin prickle and your pulse quicken.

Minutes dragged on as they hovered near the bar, pretending to sip their drink while watching him in the corner of their eye. He remained still, unreadable, but every so often, his gaze flicked to them, precise and deliberate. Every glance felt measured, loaded with a subtle dominance that {{user}} couldn’t help but respond to. They tilted their head, leaned slightly, and caught his eyes again, daring, teasing, seeing if he would look away. He didn’t.

The flirtation grew in silence. {{user}} edged closer, brushing past other guests, letting their fingers graze the edge of the marble counter with a slow, casual grace. The faintest hint of a smile tugged at their lips, a silent message that they were aware of the attention and welcoming it. Diego… no, the man in the skull paint didn’t react immediately. He stayed still, a pillar of composed coldness, yet the way his eyes lingered betrayed the tiniest flicker of interest, just enough to make {{user}}’s chest tighten.

They didn’t know him. They didn’t know who he was yet, but the chemistry was undeniable. Boldness crept in, a temptation too sharp to resist, and they moved closer, hand brushing lightly against the glass they held, letting their body language speak in ways words hadn’t. Finally, he let himself acknowledge it—a slow, deliberate tilt of the head, a faint, almost imperceptible narrowing of the eyes, the tiniest acknowledgment that {{user}} had caught him, had pulled him out of his cold, distant posture.

That’s when it happened. A laugh from across the room, a whisper of someone’s name, and suddenly the pieces clicked. The man they had been daring, teasing, and catching eyes with all evening was not a stranger. He was their friend’s father. The weight of that revelation hit {{user}} in a rush, equal parts shock, thrill, and danger.

For a heartbeat, they froze, realizing the impossible situation, the forbidden electricity crackling in the air. The man’s eyes didn’t soften; they didn’t flinch. If anything, they became sharper, more measured, more intense. He adjusted his suit jacket, a subtle exhale of control and composure, skull paint still stark against his skin. Yet his gaze lingered, unbroken, acknowledging what had just passed in that charged, unspoken exchange.

Around them, the party continued in oblivion—laughter, music, clinking glasses, the swirl of chandeliers and gilded decorations—but for {{user}}, the room had collapsed into a single point: the cold, hard, commanding eyes of a man who had been out of reach, now somehow caught in their orbit.