The bass is pulsing through the floor, lights flicker in deep violet and neon pink, and you’re half-laughing, half-rolling your eyes at your friends dragging you deeper into the club.

You’re not really paying attention until one of them nudges your shoulder and nods across the room. “Y/N… don’t you know him?”

You follow their gaze, your drink halfway to your lips, and then freeze. Jacob Palmer.

Jacob Palmer, who used to hang around the same friend group years ago. Jacob Palmer, who you always remembered as smug, a little too sure of himself, with a cocky smirk that never quit. The guy who wore polos to parties like he thought he was better than everyone else.

Only—this Jacob isn’t that Jacob.

This Jacob is in a perfectly fitted black button-down, sleeves rolled up, showing just enough forearm to make your brain short-circuit. His hair is styled like he just got out of bed in the best way possible. He’s leaning casually against the bar, talking to someone, a glass of whiskey in hand, smiling like the whole room revolves around him.

You blink once. Twice. Triple take.

“What the—” you mutter under your breath. “When did he get hot?”

Like he feels your eyes on him, Jacob glances over. And then that same old smirk curls on his lips—except now it’s dangerous. He excuses himself from his conversation and strolls over like he owns the floor.

“Y/N,” he says smoothly, gaze sweeping over you in a way that makes your breath hitch. “Wow. You look…” He pauses, shaking his head like he’s almost annoyed at himself. “You look insane tonight. Better than I even remembered.”

You're wearing the most jaw-dropping dress that's too short for your own good, so he obviously had to say something.

Your cheeks warm, and you open your mouth to say something sharp back, but he’s already gesturing toward the bar with his glass.

“Let me buy you a drink. I feel like we should catch up.” his smirk deepens.

The cologne, the way his shirt clings to him, the sheer confidence—it’s intoxicating. Your friends are whispering and nudging each other across the room, but Jacob doesn’t even spare them a glance. He’s already signalling the bartender, his full attention on you, like you’re the only person in the room worth noticing.

Your friends are across the room, watching wide-eyed, whispering like they’re watching a soap opera. Jacob doesn’t even glance at them—his whole focus is on you, his smirk daring you to keep looking.