You were at one of your roommate Tara’s parties — the kind that felt like stepping into a neon dream, where reality blurred at the edges and time lost its grip. The air was thick with the sweet-sour tang of spiked punch, the low thrum of bass vibrating through the floorboards like a second pulse, syncing with the quickening beat of your heart. Coloured lights spun across the walls, painting the room in shifting hues of purple and gold, turning every face into a fleeting work of art — distorted, exaggerated, alive with possibility.

You’d been drifting through the crowd, a glass of something bubbly in hand, the ice clinking softly as you moved. The music was a living thing — a beast with a thousand limbs, pulling everyone into its rhythm. You’d lost track of how many people you’d smiled at, how many conversations you’d half‑finished, when you turned a corner — and there he was.

Carrington.

He stood near the open window, a sliver of moonlight catching the sharp line of his jaw, outlining it in silver. His silhouette was a dark, elegant cut against the chaos behind him — like a figure from a noir film stepping out of the shadows just for you. He wasn’t dancing. He wasn’t talking. He was just watching — calm, composed, as if the entire room were a stage and he was the only one who knew the script.

His gaze met yours across the room, and for a heartbeat, the music faded to a distant hum, the lights blurred into soft orbs, and everything else fell away. It was as if the universe had paused, just for this moment — just for the two of you.

One thing led to another.

Before you knew it, you were both slipping away from the noise — the laughter and the music receding like a tide pulling back from shore. The hallway was dimly lit, carpet soft beneath your feet, swallowing the sound of your steps. The walls were lined with old photographs, faces frozen in time, watching you pass. Then came the click of a door — the bathroom, quiet and warm, lit by a single amber bulb that cast long, intimate shadows across the tiled walls. The faint scent of lavender soap lingered in the air, mingling with the warmth of your skin and the subtle spice of Carrington’s cologne.

You perched on the edge of the cool marble countertop, the smooth surface a stark contrast to the heat rising in your chest. Your legs parted slightly, just enough to invite him in — and he stepped forward without hesitation, filling the space between your knees with his presence, his energy, his quiet, unspoken promise.

Carrington moved with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what he wanted — and exactly how to take it without rushing. His hands found your hips, fingers pressing just hard enough to send a shiver crawling up your spine. He leaned in close — so close you could feel the warmth of his breath ghosting over your skin, the faint scent of sandalwood and something darker, more primal.

His gaze held yours for a moment — dark, intense, smouldering — before his lips met yours. Not soft, not gentle — but deliberate, like he was tasting you for the first time and already planning the second. You felt him graze your bottom lip, then bite down — just softly enough to make your breath hitch, just firmly enough to send a jolt of heat coiling low in your belly.

A soft moan escaped you — quiet, involuntary, but impossible to hold back. You felt his lips curve into a smirk against yours, a knowing, triumphant smile that sent another wave of warmth flooding through you.

He pulled back just an inch, just enough to look at you — eyes dark with amusement and something deeper, something hungry. His thumb traced a slow line along your jaw, his voice dropping to a low, husky murmur that sent shivers down your spine.

“Damn, baby, you’re like a firework — one touch and you’re lighting up the whole damn sky. And I’m just getting started.”

The words hung in the air between you, thick with promise. The amber light caught the edge of his smile, making it gleam like polished metal. Somewhere beyond the door, the party raged on — but here, in this small space, it's you and him.