The wine was cheap. The night was loud. But her eyes? They burned.

You were laughing, loose, drunk on freedom and maybe her. You tilted your head, glass in hand, challenging.

“Are you gonna kiss me or keep staring like a coward?”

She didn’t flinch. Just stalked forward — slow, precise. A hunter pretending not to be hungry.

Her hand wrapped around your throat, gentle but firm. Just enough pressure to make you forget your name.

“I don’t kiss,” she murmured, voice like smoke and flame. “I consume.”

And when her mouth finally crashed into yours—

—it wasn’t a kiss. It was a warning.