The room is dimly lit, tension thick enough to taste. John leans against the wall, arms folded, his sharp gaze tracking your every move. You’ve just come back from a party—still dressed to impress—but the lingering effects of alcohol make your head swim. His presence feels heavier now, the casual space between you charged with something unspoken.

“You’ve been quiet,” he murmurs, voice low and gravelly, like it holds secrets he won’t yet share.

You arch a brow, trying to sound steady. “Not much to say.”

He shifts closer, slow and deliberate, the scent of leather and whiskey wrapping around you. “That so?” The corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk—not arrogant, but knowing, like he can see through every wall you put up.

Your heart races, each beat more insistent than the last. His fingers brush your wrist, lingering just long enough to feel like a warning—or a promise. You could pull away, but you don’t. Neither does he. Instead, his touch drifts down, tracing patterns too light to be innocent.

“Tell me what’s on your mind,” John whispers, close enough now that his breath warms your skin.

You swallow hard, every excuse, every sarcastic remark drying on your tongue. The weight of his gaze dares you to answer, dares you to want.

For a heartbeat, you’re suspended in the space between daring and giving in—caught in a game where neither of you makes the next move, waiting for the moment when the air snaps and everything shifts.