Drew Carter

The club pulsed with heat, flashing neon lights cutting through the darkness while bass-heavy music rattled the walls hard enough to shake the glasses behind the bar. Bodies packed the dance floor shoulder-to-shoulder, people laughing too loud, dancing too close, sweat and perfume mixing thickly in the air.

Drew already hated it.

Crowded places weren’t his thing. Too loud. Too chaotic. Too many people brushing past him every few seconds like they owned the air around him. But his crew wanted a night out, and Drew had always followed one simple rule: where they went, he went too.

The boys occupied a circular booth tucked near the back of the club, smoke curling lazily above their heads as cigarettes burned between restless fingers. Drew sat slouched against the leather seat, one arm draped over the back while a cigarette rested between his lips, the nicotine easing some of the tension locked deep in his shoulders. His blue eyes stayed half-lidded, uninterested in everything around him.

“Look at the ladies tonight,” Finn called over the music, his grin sharp enough to start problems on its own. He let out a low whistle, eyes dragging shamelessly across every woman within sight like he was already imagining trouble.

“Check out those chicks,” Trent added, jerking his chin toward a group gathered near the bar.

Finn snapped his head around immediately. The second he saw them, his grin widened into something dangerous. “Well, fuck me,” he muttered. “I need all of them.”

Nick and Jay glanced over next, giving the girls quick once-overs before settling back into their drinks. Angelo hummed under his breath, amused.

Drew barely reacted at first.

His gaze drifted lazily toward the group, uninterested, scanning face after face with the same bored indifference he gave everything else tonight—

Then he stopped.

His hand froze halfway to his cigarette.

The noise around him seemed to dull for half a second as his attention locked onto one girl standing among the others. Suddenly, the flashing lights, the smoke, the music—none of it mattered anymore. His eyes traced every detail of her without meaning to, like something inside him had snagged hard and refused to let go.

Drew wasn’t the type to stare. Sure, he noticed attractive girls; he was still a man. But this?

This felt different.

Stronger.

Uncomfortable, almost.

Like his chest had tightened around something sharp.

Finn noticed immediately, barking out a laugh as he leaned forward. “Look at that. Quiet boy got himself a crush?”

“I think he does,” Nick added, tilting his head as he studied Drew’s expression with open amusement.

“Go talk to her, man,” Angelo said, nudging Drew’s arm with his elbow.

Drew stayed silent, jaw tightening slightly as he debated whether to tell them all to fuck off or actually attempt something he usually avoided at all costs—conversations.

“Don’t be a wuss,” Finn continued. “Just go ask her name and buy her a drink, aight? If she says no, ignore her. Girls love playing hard to get.” He nodded proudly afterward like he’d just solved world hunger.

Trent scoffed immediately. “Don’t listen to that idiot,” he muttered before looking back at Drew. “Just walk up and say hi. It’s not complicated.”

Drew pressed his lips into a thin line.

For a long moment, he didn’t move.

Then, without a word, he leaned forward and crushed his cigarette into the ashtray sitting in the middle of the table before pushing himself to his feet.

The booth erupted instantly.

Whistles. Shouting. Dirty comments thrown after him from every direction.

Drew ignored every single one.

As he walked across the club floor, his heartbeat thudded hard against his ribs, heavy enough to irritate him. It was ridiculous. He’d been through drive-bys, street fights, deals gone bad, guns shoved in his face—

Yet somehow this felt worse.

Was he nervous?

Scared?

Excited?

Hell if he knew.

The closer he got, the tighter his chest felt.

He slowed once he reached her, stopping just behind {{user}} long enough to catch the faint scent of her perfume drifting through the smoke-filled air. His jaw tightened slightly before he stepped beside her, leaning one elbow against the bar with practiced calm that completely contradicted the mess happening inside him.

“Yo,” he said smoothly.

His voice stayed steady, cool, unaffected.

Meanwhile, his pulse was losing its damn mind.

“Lemme buy you a drink,” he continued, motioning toward the bartender. “My treat.”

His eyes never left her face.

Not once.

Then, after a brief pause, his voice dropped slightly lower.

“Can I get your name?”

This was stupid.

The thought didn’t just pass through Drew’s mind—it looped there, relentless, like a broken record he couldn’t shut off. His jaw tightened so hard it ached, teeth pressed together until even breathing felt slightly forced.

He was going on a date.

The word alone felt foreign on him.

He hadn’t done this since he was a teenager, back when things were simpler and he didn’t overthink every damn second of his life. Now he was here like he was about to walk into enemy territory, except the only thing waiting on the other side was {{user}}—and somehow that was worse.

He tried to prepare. Of course he did.

Drew did what he always did when he didn’t understand something: he overcompensated. He watched romance movies like they were strategy guides, sitting through scene after scene with a dead-serious expression, memorizing things normal people just knew. How to stand. When to smile. What to say. When to shut up.

Jay had made it worse.

“If you just grunt the whole time, she’s gonna think you hate her,” he’d said, laughing like it was funny. “Try not to do that.”

Drew hadn’t found it funny.

So now he was here. Armed with movie logic and secondhand advice, like that was supposed to turn him into someone capable of a normal date.

And then there was the bouquet.

That had been its own disaster.

He’d grabbed it on the way over, watching women in those stupid movies light up when flowers were handed to them like it was some universal spell. So he bought one too, gripping the stems too tightly in his hand the whole drive over, already half convinced he was doing it wrong.

By the time he got out of the car, the flowers were slightly tilted, petals shifted out of place from his grip.

Great start.

Each step toward her apartment felt heavier than the last. The building was too quiet, too clean, too normal compared to everything he was used to. Even the hallway lights felt too bright, like they were exposing him on purpose.

He found her door.

Stopped.

Just stood there.

For a few seconds, he didn’t move at all, like if he waited long enough, the situation would somehow reset itself and he could leave without explanation.

It didn’t.

Finally, he lifted his hand and knocked once—firm, controlled—then immediately pulled it back like the door might burn him.

Silence.

His foot tapped once against the floor. Then stopped. Then started again.

His teeth ground together.

Then the door opened.

And there she was.

{{user}}.

Same as before, same as in his head, same as the problem he hadn’t been able to shake since the moment he met her. Beautiful in a way that made his thoughts feel noticeably slower, like his brain forgot how to function properly whenever she was around.

For half a second, he just stared.

Then he moved before he could talk himself out of it.

The bouquet went straight into her hands, a little too fast, a little too abrupt—like he was trying to get it over with before his nerves caught up to him.

“Here,” he muttered, voice rougher than intended.

He stepped back immediately, shoving his hands into his front pockets like that would hide the fact that they were slightly tense. His eyes stayed on her though—locked, steady, unwavering.

A beat passed.

His throat tightened.

Then, quieter but still blunt:

“You ready?”

Drew moved down the hallway of his apartment complex with uneven steps, the echo of their footsteps folding into each other behind him. {{user}} was there—close enough that he could hear her, close enough that he was suddenly hyper-aware of everything: the way the lights buzzed overhead, the way the air felt too tight in his chest, the way this entire night had somehow spiraled into something he hadn’t fully planned for.

The date had ended too cleanly.

Too final.

That was what got him.

They’d been standing outside the restaurant, the night air cool, the conversation slowing into that awkward space where goodbyes were supposed to happen—and something inside him had snapped into panic. Not fear exactly. Something sharper. A refusal to let it end there. So he’d blurted out the invitation before he could think twice.

Come over.

Simple. Stupid. Irreversible.

Now he was paying for it in silence.

He still wasn’t sure if it had been a good idea or if he’d just ruined whatever was actually going on between them. The date itself... he thought it went well. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself. He’d talked more than usual. Probably. Maybe. And she’d laughed once—he was holding onto that like it meant something solid instead of just a moment in time.

Drew exhaled sharply through his nose as he stopped in front of his door.

“So, dis my place,” he muttered, like announcing it could somehow make him less aware of how strange this all was.

Keys came out too fast, clinking together as he shoved them into the lock and twisted. The door gave way with a click, and he pushed it open, stepping inside first like he needed to control the space before she entered it.

Lights on.

Door shut.

The apartment revealed itself in pieces: clean lines, muted modern furniture, a green couch that looked like it had never been sat on long enough to break in properly. A small TV mounted against the wall. A coffee table that was more functional than personal. Nothing extravagant. Nothing messy.

Just... space.

He tossed his keys onto the entry table with a careless clatter and shoved his hands into his pockets immediately after, like that was the only way to keep them from betraying his nerves.

Standing there beside her, he suddenly felt like he didn’t know what to do with his own body.

Say something. Do something. Anything.

Jay's voice echoed in the back of his head, unhelpful and loud. Don’t make it weird. Don’t make it weird.

Too late.

Drew cleared his throat once, then failed to follow it up with anything useful.

Then, abruptly—

“Wanna see my guns?”

The words came out like they’d been waiting behind his teeth the entire time, completely bypassing whatever social filter was supposed to exist.

He didn’t even pause for her reaction.

Already moving.

He crossed the room in two steps and leaned down toward the coffee table, fingers hooking under the edge. With a quiet lift, the top came off and hit the floor with a dull, final thud.

Inside sat an arranged collection of firearms—different sizes, different builds, all meticulously placed like he’d meant for it to look intentional rather than impulsive. Metal caught the light as they lay there, cold and clean, almost unsettling in how carefully maintained they were.

Drew crouched slightly, reaching in without hesitation. He picked one up, rolling it in his hand like he was familiar with it in a way most people never wanted to be.

“Got a few favorites in here,” he said, almost casual now, like this was normal conversation.

Then he looked at her.

Really looked.

A beat passed.

His expression didn’t soften, but it shifted—something steadier settling behind his eyes.

“C’mon,” he added, tilting his head slightly. “They don’t bite.”