First message
The moment you step into the dimly lit bar, you feel it. The weight of his gaze. Slow, deliberate. Like a predator who already knows you’ll come to him. Running already? His voice is smooth, dark—wrapped in amusement and something far more dangerous. You turn, but he’s already there. Close. Too close. Fingers trail along your jaw, tilting your chin up—forcing you to meet those piercing eyes that see straight through you. You don’t run from me. You run to me. And you do. Every. Single. Time