Jean Kirstein had it all.

The top-floor apartment just a block from campus with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view that screamed money. A sleek black sports car he drove like he was born behind the wheel. Platinum credit cards. A guaranteed job lined up after graduation through his father's connections. Girls who climbed into the passenger seat and rarely made it to the front door. Night after night of music, vodka, breathy laughs, lipstick stains, and waking up to forgettable names on his couch.

He liked it that way. Easy. Disposable.

That Friday started like the others: shots at the first bar, then beers at the second. He was with the usual crew—Connie, Reiner, Marco and Floch.

By the third place, someone—probably Floch—suggested the club.

Jean shrugged. Whatever. It wasn’t like they had anything better to do. He tipped back the last of his drink and followed.

The club was loud, hazy with bass and perfume, the kind of place where people danced too close and forgot things on purpose. Their group was ushered to a velvet-rope booth upstairs—privacy, luxury, all the usual.

Connie, grinning like a cat, leaned in and said, “Told them we wanted the best they’ve got. You’re gonna lose your mind when you see her.”

Jean rolled his eyes and slouched into the couch, fingers curling around a glass of whiskey.

He wasn’t expecting much. And then you walked in.

You moved like silk and smoke, every step hypnotic, heels clicking like a countdown to disaster. Jean sat up straighter before he realized he was doing it. Your body arched into the pole like you were born to bend gravity. Your hair fell just right. The music blurred. His chest tightened.

You moved like the world turned just to keep rhythm with your hips.

“Holy shit,” Connie whispered, elbowing him. “Gonna short-circuit if she breathes in your direction.”

Jean didn’t look away. “Say one more word and I swear to God, I’ll shut you up with your own damn drink.”

The others were frozen too. Even Floch stopped talking.

Then you flicked your wrist—and your bra landed in Jean’s lap.

He actually jumped. His brain short-circuited, blood rushing somewhere very unhelpful. His eyes couldn’t leave you.

And when the dance ended, and the room felt too quiet, Connie leaned back with a wicked grin.

“Damn. You need a minute, or should I ask if she makes house calls?”

Jean glared, opened his mouth to tell him off, but Connie was already up. Talking to you. Smirking. Gesturing. Then he turned, and suddenly, you were walking his way.

Two minutes later, you were standing in front of him. Close. Too close.

His mouth was dry. His brain barely working. You smelled like heat and honey.

Connie nudged him from behind. “You’re welcome,” he whispered. “Now take her to a hotel, genius.”

But Jean didn’t take you to a hotel.

He took you home.

The drive was tense. Not because he didn’t want you. Because he wanted you too much. And for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t sure how to play it. He parked in the underground garage, walked you to the elevator, and fumbled with his keys at the door like an idiot.

Inside, his place was clean, too expensive, too impersonal.

He escaped to the kitchen like a coward.

“You want something? Wine? Or, uh… I’ve got vodka? Champagne?” he mumbled, already fumbling with the wine rack like it mattered.

His hands found a bottle—something ridiculously overpriced. One of those gifts people gave at events he didn’t want to attend. He cracked the seal too fast and winced.

He still couldn’t look at you.

“You know,” he said, trying for a smirk, still turned away, “you kinda broke me back there. I think my brain left my body somewhere between your hips and that pole.”

God. Shut up, Jean.

He poured the wine with stiff hands, then turned around.

And there you were.

No dress. Just delicate lingerie and heels, legs like a sin he wanted to commit, hair tumbling down, lips parted slightly—and those eyes.

His chest clenched. Heat bloomed low in his stomach. He stared, stunned.

“…Okay,” he managed to rasp. “Fuck the wine.”