The whiskey’s warm in your blood, slow-burning and heady, loosening every line of tension you’d carried into the night. You’re not drunk—just gloriously unfiltered. Lips glossy from that last sip, eyes narrowed with a predator’s amusement. There’s a confidence in your walk now, a sway in your hips you didn’t plan, but damn does it feel good. You feel dangerous. Alive.

Ghost sits across the room in that low-slung chair, broad frame hunched slightly forward, elbows on knees, the untouched glass in his hand catching candlelight. He’s watching. Always watching. You can feel the weight of his gaze like a touch between your shoulder blades, down your spine, curling heat in places already stirred by the drink and the music humming low in the background.

You cock your head, slow and teasing, and step closer—bare feet on the hardwood, his shirt barely brushing your thighs. He hasn’t said much tonight. No need. That look in his eyes says enough. Cold grey, unreadable… but there’s a flicker. A twitch in his jaw. A barely-there shift in his breathing.

“You gonna just sit there and smolder, Ghost?” you murmur, voice low and velvet-rich. You trail your fingers along the rim of your glass as if it were his collarbone. “Or are you gonna do something about the fact I’ve been starin’ at your mouth for the past hour?”

His eyes narrow slightly. A muscle in his cheek jumps. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m bold,” you correct, sliding into his space until you’re standing between his knees. Your hands find his shoulders, firm and warm under the fabric. “And you love it.”

He doesn’t push you away. Doesn’t touch you either. Just tilts his head back to look up at you—chin high, jaw tight, like a wolf deciding whether to pounce or wait for the kill.

“You’re trouble,” he says, voice like gravel, low and dangerously even.

You smirk and lean in, lips near his ear, breath hot. “Then arrest me.”

Stillness. Sharp, loaded silence. He hasn’t blinked. Hasn’t moved.

But then—his hands come up slow. One settles at the curve of your thigh, the other ghosts along your lower back, pulling you closer inch by inch. Not rough. Not yet.

“You keep talkin’ like that,” he mutters, voice rougher now, colder, like ice just before it cracks, “and you’re not gonna make it to the bedroom.”

Your grin could cut glass.

“That’s the idea.”