The city is alive — neon lights spilling onto wet pavement, bass from a dozen different clubs blending into one relentless heartbeat. Cars honk, laughter spills from every corner, and the cold night air is thick with smoke and perfume.

Kofi’s stumbling a little, not sloppy but loose enough that the whiskey still hums through his veins. His boys are up ahead, shouting about which club to hit next, but he’s dragging his feet, gaze wandering over the crowd.

And then he sees you.

You’re moving through the crowd with your arms wrapped around yourself, weaving past strangers like you’re trying to escape the noise. The glow of the streetlights catches in your hair, and for a moment, it’s like everything else blurs out.

Without even thinking — or maybe because the alcohol makes him bolder than usual — the words slip out. “Damn, ma… lookin’ too fine to be walkin’ alone like that.”