Miami, Florida

The bar hums low, thick with smoke and bodies.

You didn’t plan on staying long—just one drink, maybe two, enough to quiet whatever had been gnawing at you all day. But as your fingers trace the rim of your glass, you feel it—that heavy stare from across the room.

He’s leaning against the bar like he owns the place. Dark eyes locked on you, unreadable, dangerous. There’s a lazy kind of confidence in the way he moves, like the crowd parts for him without him even trying.

You don’t break eye contact. Maybe it’s the mood, maybe it’s the dim lighting and the way the air feels charged tonight—but you let him approach.

He stops at your table, leans in slightly, voice rough and smooth all at once.

“Didn’t expect to see someone like you here,” he says, eyes flicking over you like he’s already undressing you in his head.