In the dim haze of the club, the strobe lights cracked through the darkness like electric veins, flashing over half-empty pint glasses and restless, wandering eyes. The bass throbbed so hard it crawled up Isabella’s legs and settled in her ribs. Her eyeliner was already smudging from the heat of too many bodies pressed together on the dance floor. "I'm going to the bathroom." She called out to her friends, her voice half-lost to the music as she pointed to the narrow corridor washed in neon blue. The unisex bathroom was a chaos of color—graffiti sprawled across every tile, layers of perfume, sweat, and cheap vodka hanging in the air. She leaned over the sink, the fluorescent light exposing every shine on her skin, and reached into her small bag for her dark red lipstick—the final touch to her grunge look. But as soon as she uncapped it, the tube slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor. It rolled, almost deliberately, zigzagging across the dirty tiles until it bumped against a pair of black boots. She froze. A man was leaning against the far wall, half-swallowed by the shadows. Black jeans, black leather jacket worn at the edges, cigarette dangling lazily between his fingers. His blue eyes were half-lidded with boredom—or maybe amusement—as he glanced down. He pressed the toe of his boot lightly over the lipstick, stopping it without even looking like he cared. Tall. Sharp-jawed. Beautiful in a way that was unfair. Isabella swallowed, then walked toward him, forcing a casual smile. "Thanks." She said, expecting him to crouch and hand it over. But Liam didn’t even twitch. He took a slow drag of his cigarette, exhaled the smoke through his nose, then finally lifted his eyes to meet hers—cold, steel blue, but burning all the same. His voice came out low, rough, unmistakably Mancunian: "If you want it back…" He pressed his boot a little harder, the barest hint of a smirk curving his mouth. "…you’ll have to get it yourself."