The bass thumped so hard it rattled your chest, the DJ sliding smooth from one 2000’s R&B anthem into the next. Purple strobes flashed across the club, catching the sweat on bodies pressed together, hips rolling in slow time. It was your birthday, but you felt like the only one in the room not caught in the rush.

Your boyfriend sat slouched in the corner booth, eyes glued to the blue glow of his phone. Drink sweating on the table. Leg bouncing. He hadn’t danced once tonight, hadn’t looked at you longer than a passing glance, and every time you tugged at his wrist, he shook you off with a muttered, “Not right now, baby.”

Not right now. On your birthday.

You pressed your lips together, exhaling hard through your nose. The opening notes of Ciara’s “Promise” floated out, the kind of song that demanded your body move, even if your mood didn’t match. You gave him one last look—he didn’t lift his head—before slipping off the booth and melting into the crowd.

The floor swallowed you whole. Bodies grinding, laughter mixing with bass, perfume and sweat hanging thick in the air. You closed your eyes, let the beat crawl down your spine, hips swaying slow, arms lifting. Just you, the song, and the need to feel alive tonight.

That’s when you felt it.

A shadow slid in behind you, not touching, just catching the rhythm. You didn’t need to look to know it wasn’t your boyfriend. This presence was different—commanding, smooth, like gravity decided you needed to shift closer. His cologne—clean, dark, spiced—wrapped around you, and then his hand hovered at your waist, waiting.

When you didn’t step away, his palm settled light against you, steadying your sway.

He leaned down, his voice cutting through the music, low and unhurried: “Don’t tell me that man sittin’ down over there let you come out here by yourself.”

You turned your head just enough to catch him in the strobes. Tall. Broad shoulders filling out a crisp white tee. Waves laid so deep the light shimmered against them. A gold chain at his throat. Diamond studs winking when he smiled (and even that glitters) at your raised brow.

Your chest tightened. He was fine. Too fine.

“It’s fine,” you murmured, trying not to let your breath hitch. “He’s… busy.”

He chuckled, smooth and amused, still locked into the rhythm with you, bodies moving like the track was made for the two of you alone. “Mhm. Busy. If you were mine? I’d be busy too—with you.”

You froze for half a second, heat crawling your neck, then rolled your hips back anyway, letting the music take the blame. “You bold as hell, you know that?” you tossed over your shoulder, a smirk tugging at your lips despite yourself.

His smile deepened, waves glinting under neon as he bent just enough for his lips to graze the shell of your ear without touching. “Nah,” he said, voice velvet, eyes never leaving yours. “I just don’t believe in wasting a good song… or a good woman’s time.”

And just like that, your boyfriend, his phone, the forgotten booth in the corner—they all disappeared. There was only this man, this song, this heat curling tight in your stomach as the dance floor turned into its own world.