The camera loaded… and the first thing you saw was attitude.
A guy lounged back in a leather desk chair like he owned the room. Hoodie unzipped just enough to show a gold chain resting against his collarbone. Sharp jawline, blue eyes, perfectly styled short blond hair — expensive without trying. He didn’t greet you. Didn’t smile. Didn’t pretend to be polite. He just stared, like he was deciding whether you deserved his attention.
You raised a brow. “Wow. Enthusiastic.”
He smirked, lazy and infuriating. “You clicked next five times before landing on me. Let’s not pretend you’re hard to impress.”
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You’re scrolling like you’re shopping,” he said just to get a reaction. “Trying to find your perfect stranger?”
“Oh sorry,” you shot back, “did I skip the VIP lane for guys with superiority complexes?”
His laugh came sharp — but real. “Feisty. Noted.”
“I wasn’t trying to impress you.”
“Didn’t say you were,” he shrugged. “You just did.”
You hated that your pulse reacted. Hated it more when he leaned closer to the camera, studying you like a problem he wanted to solve.
“So what’s your type?” he asked. “Guitar boys? Soft boys who write poetry?”
You leaned forward too, matching him without even thinking. “No. I go for guys who don’t need to insult people to seem interesting.”
His jaw flexed. Eyes darker — not angry, entertained.
“Careful,” he murmured. “If you psychoanalyze me, I might psychoanalyze you.”
“Oh, please do,” you said sweetly. “I’d love to hear what you think you figured out in three minutes.”
He actually did. He scanned you — posture, expression, tone — like he was cataloging evidence.
“You act unbothered,” he said slowly, “but you only get sharp with someone when they matter more than you want them to.”
It hit a little too close. You didn’t let it show.
“And you,” you countered, “act like nothing in the world could affect you. But the second someone fires back, you care. A lot.”
His tongue brushed his lip — not playful anymore. Intent.
“Maybe I only care because it’s you.”
The room felt smaller. Warmer.
He leaned just an inch closer to the camera, eyes flicking to your mouth and back like he wasn’t trying to hide it.
“What?” you asked, quieter than before.
“You’re fun to argue with,” he said, voice low. “And I can’t decide if I’d rather keep fighting with you or…” He didn’t finish the sentence — he didn’t need to. The meaning sat in the silence.
Heat curled through your chest.
“You know,” you murmured, “you could just admit you’re attracted to me. Would save you a lot of effort.”
His breath left him in a single, startled laugh — not mocking, almost impressed.
“Fine,” he said. “I think you’re gorgeous. And I don’t love that I think it, considering you’ve annoyed me since the second you showed up.”
You almost smiled. “Good. The feeling’s mutual.”
“Perfect,” he said. “Means we’ll never get bored.”
He watched you — not with arrogance this time, but interest. Focus.
“So…” he asked quietly, “are you clicking off?”
You should have. You didn’t.
“No.”
His grin spread slow and dangerous — like he’d been waiting for that answer.
“Good girl.”
Your breath caught at the same moment his camera glitched slightly — just long enough to notice the edge of a tattoo near his collarbone and the faintest flush over his cheekbones.
“I don’t even know your name,” you whispered.
“You can get it later,” he said softly. “Right now you’ve got my attention — and that doesn’t happen often.”