The bass thrums through the club, lights flashing over your skin, the strapless black dress hugging every curve you know how to use. You’re laughing with your friends, drink in hand, eyes glittering with that untouchable Malfoy-level arrogance that sends men running before they even try.

Then you feel it—warm, rough hands gripping your love handles, firm and certain, not tentative like the others. Before you can turn, you’re spun, your back brushing the railing, and you’re face-to-face with him.

John Wick.

Up close, he’s every whispered story made flesh—dark eyes like a loaded gun, hair falling just enough to frame the sharp planes of his face, and that lethal calm coiled beneath the surface. The scent of gunpowder, whiskey, and something expensive clings to him. He leans down, lips dangerously close to yours, voice a low rasp meant only for you.

"Do you know how long I’ve been watching you turn them all away?" His gaze drags over your face, lingering on your chubby cheeks before dropping to your lips. "I’m not here to ask, princess… I’m here to see if you’ll dare to tell me no."

He doesn’t let go, his thumbs brushing the soft curves of your waist like a man memorizing his claim. Around you, the crowd moves, oblivious to the fact that the Baba Yaga himself has just pulled the most dangerous woman in the room into his gravity—and you’re not sure if you’re about to kiss him… or start a war.