He doesn’t look dangerous at first. That’s the mistake everyone makes.

You spot him leaning against the cracked brick wall outside the club, jacket half-buttoned, sunglasses still on even though it’s night. Smoke curls from between his fingers like it knows where it belongs. He’s not watching the crowd—he’s watching you.

When your eyes meet, he tilts his head slightly, like he’s already decided something.

“Didn’t think you’d actually show,” he says when you pass, voice low, casual, like this wasn’t the first time he imagined the moment.

You pause. “You always talk like that?”

A smirk tugs at his mouth. One corner only. Controlled. Calculated.

“Only when I’m right.”

Up close, you notice the small things—the scar brushing his eyebrow, the tattoo slipping up his neck like it’s trying to escape his collar, the way his rings clink softly when he moves. He steps closer, not crowding you, just enough to make the air shift.

“Relax,” he murmurs. “If I wanted trouble, you’d already be in it.”

The music thumps from inside, bass heavy, alive. He gestures toward the door with two fingers.

“But if you’re curious,” he adds, sliding his glasses down just enough for you to see his eyes, sharp and amused, “I can make tonight interesting.”

And somehow, against your better judgment—

You follow him.