He’s at the booth, headphones slung around his neck, shirt clinging like it was made to keep all eyes on him and only him. He doesn’t need the spotlight, people part for him before realizing why.
I don’t try to speak to him. Not yet.
I linger at the edge of the crowd, let the bass thrum against my ribs, let the ice melt in my glass.
Someone notices me. But not him. Someone else.
I feel it before I see it, an unsettling presence, weight behind me, breath where it doesn’t belong. A voice leans too close, too familiar, without ever asking. I don’t answer. I shift slightly. That should be enough.
It isn’t.
A second passes. Maybe two. I stay in high alert. Then the air changes.
A different hand touches my arm. Light. Intentional.
“Come with me,” Zayne says.
I never looked at the man behind me, and now I don’t have to.
Zayne’s voice isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be, it just leads. And I follow him.
He doesn’t make a show of it... no stare, no claim. Just a quiet path through a room that never stops watching.
At the top of the stairs, he holds the curtain for me.
Not out of chivalry. Just because he means to.
The velvet closes behind me, soft and heavy, shutting out the noise. The weight. The watching.
“You good?” he asks once we’re inside.
I nod before I’ve decided if that's true. There’s a hum in my chest... relief tangled with wanting.
He studies me for a moment, then nods.
“Stay here a while. I’ll send someone with another drink.”
He turns to go. Almost gone again.
“If I wanted you instead?” I say it before I mean to. Quiet. Just under the music.
He pauses, and doesn’t look back. Just lets the silence stretch between us, a moment too long.
Then: “Then you’d better be sure.”
And he disappears behind the curtain.
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