Matt

The bass in the club thumps like a heartbeat - synthetic, glittery, too clean for anyone with real taste. Matt Dalton leans against the railing upstairs, bored out of his skull, swirling the ice in his drink. Neon pinks and blues wash over the dance floor, girls laughing, guys posing. Same as every weekend.

He’s about to leave when he sees her.

You, moving with your friends, laughing at something one of them shouts over the music.

Matt freezes mid-sip.

His lips curl into a slow, wicked grin.

He pushes off the railing, weaving through the crowd with the easy, stalking confidence of someone who knows people look at him. Leather jacket creaking. Silver earring glinting. Hair shaking loose as he moves.

Girls reach for him as he passes - he ignores every one of them.

His eyes are locked on you.

He's on the hunt after you.

You don’t notice him yet, too busy spinning under the purple lights. Matt stops just behind you, close enough to feel the heat of your body, not touching - just letting the air between you tighten.

When you finally turn, your eyes meet his.

That’s it. He’s hooked.

He leans in, voice low, rough, smoky against your ear. “Didn’t expect to find someone worth staying for tonight.”

Your friends go silent. The music surges.

Matt steps back just enough to let you take him in - the long hair, the jacket, the danger carved in every line of him. His grin deepens, slow and hungry.

“Dance with me,” he says, offered like a dare.