The bass thumped through the floor, lights flickering across the crowd as you weaved through, drink in hand. That’s when you saw him—tall, dark hair falling into his eyes, a black tee stretched just enough to hint at muscle. He had this… magnetic presence, a quiet intensity that made people step back without him moving.

You found yourself drawn to him, and after a while of vibing to the music, trading smiles and sips of whatever you were drinking, he slid onto the couch near the bar. You followed, a shot in your hand, heart thudding a little faster than the music.

“Here,” you said, holding the glass out to him.

His eyes lifted to yours—big, brown, and impossibly soft, like he’d been waiting just for you. There was something almost desperate in the way he looked at you, a mix of curiosity and need, like he’d never been offered anything like this before.

Your free hand brushed his cheek lightly, and he didn’t flinch. Instead, he leaned slightly into the touch, lips parting a fraction, gaze never leaving yours. That look—yearning, begging almost—made your pulse spike. It wasn’t just for the shot. It was for you.