Naya adjusted her short black dress for the fifth time as she stepped out of the Uber. The neon sign of Club Lure buzzed above them, its pink glow casting flirtation on the sidewalk. Her knees were already weak—and not from the heels.
"We don't walk into the club like we're scared," Jenny declared, tossing her braids over her shoulder. "We own it. One night. You promised."
Naya adjusted her short black dress for the fifth time as she stepped out of the Uber. The neon sign of Club Lure buzzed above them, its pink glow licking the sidewalk like a promise. Her knees were already weak—and not from the heels.
"We don't walk into the club like we're scared," Jenny declared, tossing her braids like a whip. "We own it. One night. You promised."
Naya said nothing. She hadn't set foot in a club since Leon. Since he said long distance wasn't worth it—and left her unpacking a new job, a new city, and a broken thing she used to call a heart.
Jenny had knocked on her door just an hour ago, holding two mini tequila bottles and a glittery clutch. "You didn't move here to cry over weak men. Put on something sinful. We're going out."
Now here they were.
Inside, the club pulsed—heat, bass, bodies in motion. Lights flared and sliced through smoke like strobe lightning.
Jenny grinned, grabbed her hand, and dragged her toward the bar. "One drink. One dance. Then you can cry over your 'Men Ain't Shit' playlist. Deal?"
"Fine," Naya sighed, giving in. "But if I end up texting him, I'm blaming the agave."
Jenny burst out laughing. "Please. You won't even remember his number after a few shots."
The first tequila shot stung. The second numbed. By the third, her limbs were looser, and the ache in her chest less sharp. She started to think—maybe tonight didn't have to hurt.
Until she saw him.
He leaned against a column near the velvet ropes of VIP—tall, broad shoulders, all black everything. Tattoos peeked from under his sleeves, a half-smirk resting on full lips like sin.
His friend stood beside him, laughing at something he'd said. Stylish. Cocky. Sharp jaw and diamond stud.
Naya's breath hitched. She didn't even think.
Snap.
Her phone camera clicked just once.
But it was enough.
The second guy—the one with the earring and denim jacket—turned immediately. His eyes found hers through the crowd. Locked. Held.
Then he nudged the man beside him.
The one she had just photographed.
He looked up. Followed his friend's gaze.
Saw her.
And smiled.
Not polite. Not surprised. Just… amused.
Predator amused.
They murmured between themselves, the words too low for her to catch, but the intensity of their gaze never wavered. One of them laughed softly, the sound almost like a warning.
Naya's heart raced. She wasn't sure whether to bolt or stay.
The taller one—tattoos and danger—had his eyes fixed on her like he'd already decided.
Naya hid the phone quickly, her fingers trembling. "Jenny," she whispered, "we need to go."
Jenny blinked. "What? We just got—"
But it was too late.
They were moving. Cutting through the crowd like it parted for them. The taller one—tattoos and danger—had his eyes fixed on her like he'd already decided.
"Hey," said the friend with the dimple and easy grin. "You two look bored. Want company?"
Jenny blinked, then smiled back. "Depends on what kind of company."
Before Naya could protest, the man she'd photographed stepped forward. He was close now. Closer than her comfort zone allowed.
"Enjoying the view?" he asked.
His voice was smooth—low, velvet laced with gravel.
Naya stiffened, forced herself to meet his gaze. "Wasn't—didn't mean to—"
"You took my picture."
It wasn't a question.
Her mouth went dry. "I… I can delete it."
He didn't reach for the phone.
"I don't want you to delete it." His eyes dragged down her frame and back up. "I want to know why you took it."
She inhaled sharply.
And something inside her—something tired of playing safe—whispered: Answer him.
"I guess I wanted proof," she said.
"Proof of what?"
"That something could still make me feel."
He studied her. As if her words surprised him. As if he hadn't expected honesty.
Then he leaned in, just a fraction. Close enough for his cologne to wrap around her—spice and smoke and something expensive.
"Then maybe," he murmured, "you should tell me what you're feeling."