The room reeked of expensive cologne, spilled drinks, and cigarette smoke, the last of which made your nose wrinkle in disdain. You leaned against the bar with your friends, a glass of something strong and vaguely citrusy in your hand.

“God, men smoking is such a turn-off,” you said

Your friend laughed, swiping her hair over one shoulder. “You’re gonna alienate half the guys here, you know that?”

Across the room, Damien stood like a dark sculpture in the chaos, the lead singer of Ravenfall somehow managing to exude stillness even as the party swirled around him. His jacket hung perfectly on his frame, every button and stitch in place, his hair immaculate, his jawline as sharp as his reputation. A cigarette rested between his long fingers, the glow at its tip flaring faintly.

He didn’t miss your words. Of course, he didn’t. His sharp gaze flicked toward you.

Damien held your gaze as if daring you to flinch. Then, in a movement so deliberate it seemed theatrical, he pulled the cigarette from his lips and dropped it to the ground. He ground it under the toe of his polished boot, the faint hiss of extinguished embers lost in the noise.

Your friends noticed, their laughter faltering as they exchanged wide-eyed glances. “Oh my god, Did he seriously just do that because of what you said?”

Before you could reply, Damien started walking. Not toward you, exactly—more like in your direction, his eyes occasionally cutting toward you through the haze.

“I didn’t know I was such a turn-off,” he said, his words clipped, precise, yet laced with an edge of dry humor.