The bass hums low through the club, a steady pulse in your ribs as you step backstage. Another night, another crowd—nothing you haven’t done before. You adjust your outfit, roll your shoulders, exhale slow.

And then he walks in.

Broad. Solid. That easy, unhurried presence that commands attention without a word. He doesn’t shove his way forward. He doesn’t have to. People shift without realizing, instinctively clearing space for him. The low lights catch the faintest streaks of silver through the dark of his beard, the sharp cut of his eyes under the neon lights.

His mates are loud, talking, drinking, nudging at his shoulder, but he stays quiet, settled into the room like he’s already figured out every exit, every face worth watching. And then—like he knows—his gaze lifts to the stage just as you step into the light. A slow, deliberate motion.

You should ignore him. Shouldn’t feed the pull in your gut. But maybe it’s that stillness, that unreadable weight in his eyes, that makes your decision for you.

The music shifts. The crowd cheers. When it’s time to pick someone, you don’t hesitate. Your finger lifts, cutting through the haze of lights—“You.” A slow smile curling on your lips. A tap against the chair onstage. “Sit pretty for me.”

The air in the club tightens. His friends react first, laughing, clapping his back, egging him on. He holds your gaze for a beat too long. Then, finally—finally—he moves. A slow push from the bar, a deliberate stroll toward the stage.

He eases into the chair, legs spreading wide, forearms settling heavy over his thighs. No cocky grin, no eager hands. Just a slow, easy smile. He pats his thigh twice, a lazy motion, fingers tapping against solid muscle like he’s testing your nerve. Then, voice low and rough with amusement— “Makin’ a habit of draggin' me into trouble, are ya?”