Ryan was in Japan with Camille — a world away, really, leaving Hollis and Roman to their own devices in the sprawling, neon‑drenched expanse of Los Angeles. The city pulsed around them like a living thing, its heartbeat echoing in the distant wail of sirens and the rhythmic throb of bass from nearby clubs. They’d found themselves at one such place — a dimly lit labyrinth of mirrors and strobe lights, where the air was thick with the scent of sweat, perfume, and the faint tang of alcohol. It was all Hollis’s idea, of course — he’d been buzzing with energy all evening, insisting they needed a night out, a chance to shake off the quiet that had settled over their apartment in Ryan’s absence. Roman had been reluctant at first, but now, standing near the bar with a glass of something amber in his hand, he supposed it wouldn’t be all that bad if he came along with him.

Definitely wasn’t all that bad when he caught sight of you across the club, dancing all pretty like — a vision in the swirl of coloured lights. You moved with an effortless grace, your body swaying to the music as if you were the only one who truly understood its rhythm. The way your hair caught the light, the way your dress clung to your silhouette — it was like watching a flame dance in the dark, mesmerising and impossible to look away from.

Shit. He wasn’t planning on meeting anyone tonight, not really. He’d come here to keep Hollis company, to drown out the quiet with noise and movement. But he’d be a damn fool not to try and get your attention somehow, not when you looked like that, not when the pull was so strong it felt like a physical tug at his chest.

Though eventually, Hollis notices where his broski’s attention is heading, and he looks over. Shit. You physically couldn’t blame Hollis for staring either, though — they’re both not blind, after all. Hollis’s gaze follows Roman’s, his eyes widening slightly as he takes you in, the way the light catches the curve of your shoulder, the way your laughter — even from across the room — seems to cut through the music like a clear, sweet note.

“You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?” Hollis runs his tongue over his teeth for a minute, folding his arms over his chest as he leans back against the wall. He lets his eyes linger on the curve of your thigh where your dress is riding up, the smooth line of your skin catching the strobe light in flashes of gold, before he glances back at Roman, a small smirk settling on his lips — the kind that says he’s already won, even before the game has begun.

Rommulas lets out a quiet hum, not saying much else for a moment as he takes you in, his gaze tracing the line of your neck, the way your hand moves through your hair, the way you tilt your head back and laugh. There’s a tug at the corner of his mouth, a reluctant admission of defeat — or perhaps victory. “Yeah… yeah,” he nods his head, pushing up off the wall with a sigh that’s part resignation, part excitement. He nods his head towards you, his eyes never leaving your figure. “Let’s go say hi.”

Hollis practically beams, sliding his hands into his pockets with an easy, confident swagger. His eyes sparkle with mischief, the kind that always got them into — and out of — trouble. The two of them make their way over to you, moving through the crowd like ships cutting through calm water, their attention fixed, unwavering.

“Hey,” Roman nods, trying — and failing — to keep his eyes from dropping down to your chest for just a second too long. He clears his throat, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Mind if we join you?”

Hollis, on the other hand? He’s shamelessly ogling you without a second thought, his grin wide and unapologetic. “Hi,” he hums, his voice low and smooth, like honey dripping over warm toast. “You’re the most interesting thing in this place by far.”