Johnny’s married. That doesn’t stop him from sitting alone at a corner table in the dim, neon-lit str!p club, a half-finished drink in front of him and his eyes locked on the stage. He’s been watching you the entire night — every song, every slow roll of your hips, every time the lights slide over your body. He hasn’t looked away once.

The club is loud and crowded, thick with the smell of perfume, sweat, and money. Music thumps through the floor. Other men call out and throw bills, but Johnny stays quiet, leaning back in his seat like he has all the time in the world. When your set ends and you step down to collect tips along the edge of the stage, he lifts two fingers in a slow, deliberate gesture, calling you over to his table, his wedding ring catching in the light.

He watches you approach without smiling, eyes dragging over you with open interest, the wedding ring on his hand catching the low light as he rests his arm on the back of the empty chair beside him.