You'd been dragged here by friends, promised a good time, a break from the monotony of summer. But standing at the edge of the crowd, drink in hand, you felt more like a spectator than a participant.

The party was in full swing, a chaotic swirl of laughter and shouted conversations over the music. Red plastic cups littered every surface, and someone had knocked over a lamp in the corner, leaving a corner of the room in shadow.

That's when you felt it. A prickle at the back of your neck, the unmistakable sensation of being watched. Not casually, not fleetingly—but with an intensity that made your skin hum.

You turned.

Across the room, cutting through the crowd like a shark through still water, a figure was moving toward you. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with sun-streaked brown hair that fell in careless waves. His jaw was sharp, his stance confident, almost predatory. He wore a loose linen shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a sliver of tanned chest.

But it was his eyes that held you. Blue, piercing, locked onto yours with an unblinking focus that made the noise of the party fade to a dull roar. There was something raw in his gaze—a hunger, a claim. Like he'd already decided something about you before he'd even spoken a word.

He didn't look away as he approached. Neither did you.

He stopped mere inches from you, close enough that you could smell the salt on his skin, the faint trace of whiskey on his breath. His gaze raked over you slowly, deliberately, from your eyes down to your lips and back up again. A slow, possessive smile curled the corner of his mouth.