Every now and then, he’d pass by that club. He didn’t say much, just leaned against the bar, whisky in hand, eyes fixed on the door that sometimes showed you walking out long coat, cigarette between your lips, and the kind of expression that had already seen it all. You had pretty eyes, he’d thought that more than once. Pretty, but not soft. There was something sharp in the way you looked, like you were ready to cut anyone who came too close.

Tonight is different.

Tonight, he doesn’t settle for watching you from afar.

He calls you over. Not with words, but with the way he watches you from the darkest corner of the club. As if his presence alone made the air thicker. When you finally walk up to him, there’s a moment of silence. He doesn’t smile.

Got a name? he asks, voice rough, accent still strong.

Liam didn’t come for the show. Tonight, he chose you. And though you might think he’s only after flesh, just a moment and nothing more... when his hand rests on your waist, there’s something else there. Something that burns slow, something that doesn’t rush.