But of course—I turn anyway.
Because I never fucking learn.
And then I see him.
Leaning against the wall like he owns the oxygen in the room, like every pulse of bass was written for the way his body holds tension. His black shirt clings to his chest as if it was stitched onto him, the top buttons undone just enough to reveal the moonlit suggestion of ink, muscle, and the kind of sin no sermon could save anyone from.
His trousers hang low on his hips—loose enough to tempt, tight enough to hurt. His arms are crossed, veins carving alonghis forearms like paths to places I should never go. Tattoos crawl up one side of him like secrets I’ll never be worthy of.
And his jaw—God. Sharp enough to cut. Set tight like he’s already fighting something. Or someone. Or me.
But his eyes—Those same storm-blue, ocean-cold eyes that drowned me once and apparently came back to finish the job.
Still watching me like I’m not a girl in bunny ears.
Still watching me like I’m the puzzle he wants to take apart with his teeth.
Still watching me like I’m the only thing in this overcrowded room.
I forget how to breathe.
Not figuratively.
Literally.
My lungs collapse under the weight of that stare. My knees lock like they know they’d drop if I let them. My mouth—fuck—my mouth goes dry at the way he tilts his head like he’s remembering how I tasted.
There’s no smile.
No nod.
No apology.
No explanation.
Just want.
And that quiet, lethal pull that makes me want to fall again.
And I do want to fall.
God help me—I do.
I take a step toward the bar without even knowing why. Maybe to run. Maybe to get distance. Maybe to prove to myself I’m not that girl.
I don’t get two steps before I feel him behind me.
Not hear.
Feel.
Like a second shadow stitched to my spine, smelling like danger and sex and every bad decision I swore I’d never make again.
“Red looks good on you, butterfly.”
His voice is lower than memory allows. Smoke, gravel, sin. It sinks beneath my skin like heat spreading through cold bones.
I don’t turn around. I can’t.
