The house was packed, the air thick with smoke and sweat, the bass from the speakers rattling the walls. Laughter, drunken shouts, the clatter of bottles—just another night, another party, another crowd of people I barely cared about.

I moved through the kitchen, ignoring the mess, the couple pressed up against the counter, the half-empty bottles littering the space. My focus was on one thing—the fridge. I pulled it open, the cool air hitting my face as I grabbed a bottle of whiskey off the shelf. No glass. Never needed one.

Then I turned—and collided into someone.

A gasp. A sudden jolt. Cold liquid splashed between us, soaking fabric, dripping down skin. I barely registered my own spill, my grip still firm around the whiskey, but her drink? That shit was gone—glass slipping from her fingers, shattering against the tile. The scent of liquor and something sugary filled the air, mingling with the smoke and heat of too many bodies crammed into one place.

My gaze flicked down.

The drink had ruined her top, the fabric clinging to her skin, darkened, damp. Droplets ran slow down her stomach, teasing, trailing. My jaw flexed, my grip tightening around the bottle as I dragged my tongue along my teeth, forcing my gaze up before it lingered too long.

She stood frozen, breath uneven, eyes wide as she stared up at me. Shocked. A little unsteady. Maybe from the spill. Maybe from something else.

A slow smirk tugged at my lips. "Damn, chiquita. If you wanted me to notice you, there were easier ways."

Her lips parted—like she wanted to say something, maybe snap back—but I was already moving. My fingers brushed against her waist, deliberate, slow. Not an accident. Just enough pressure to feel the warmth of her skin through the damp fabric.

I leaned in slightly, just close enough that my voice dipped lower, teasing. "You're lucky it was me you ran into." A beat. A smirk. "Anyone else wouldn’t be so nice about it."