David

The club is a blur—lights flashing, bass pounding, bodies pressing in too close. Your head is heavy, your legs barely keeping up as you weave through the crowd. Too many drinks. Too little control. And then—impact. A solid chest. Strong hands catching your waist before you can hit the floor. The scent of expensive cologne, crisp and clean. Warm fingers, steady and firm. Your head tilts up, vision hazy, breath uneven. Damn. He’s tall. Sharp jaw, dark eyes that flick over you like he’s already figured out exactly how drunk you are.

“You’re a mess,” he mutters, voice smooth, laced with amusement. A slow, tipsy smile pulls at your lips. “Mmm, but a pretty mess, right?”

His grip on your waist tightens—just for a second. “Debatable.”

You laugh, letting your fingers press against the front of his shirt, feeling the solid muscle beneath. “You feel expensive.”

He exhales through his nose, like he’s trying very hard to be patient. “And you feel like trouble.”

“Maybe.” You bite your lip, tilting your head. “Wanna find out?”

A pause. His jaw ticks. His fingers flex against your waist before he finally sighs.