Naya looked at him—and time exhaled.
Slow. Heavy. Hesitant.
Her breath caught. Her skin prickled like it had been touched. She stepped back slightly, trying to find solid ground beneath the rush in her chest.
Cole didn't move.
He just watched her—eyes locked, calm and dangerous, like he could see straight through the black dress and into every thought she hadn't said out loud.
A low laugh slipped from him.
Not loud. Not bright. Just... deliberate.
Like he was already unwrapping her in his mind.
"I'm Cole," he said, voice rich and velvet-dark. "And you are?"
"Naya." Her voice was a breath, too soft, too exposed.
She hated how unsteady it sounded. But the way he looked at her—steady, unblinking—lit something reckless along her spine.
"Nice name," he said. "Suits you."
His gaze flicked toward the wine table—Dane, Jenny—then settled right back on her. As if nothing else in the room mattered.
She crossed her arms, trying to shield the way her chest rose too fast. Her dress felt thinner suddenly. Bare.
He tilted his head, drinking her in slowly—openly—like he was memorizing her with intention.
A smirk curved his lips.
"You always snap pics of men you're into," he asked, voice teasing but edged with steel, "or am I just lucky tonight?"
Naya let out a breath, half-laugh, half-sigh. She looked away, flustered. Her pulse skittered beneath her skin.
He saw it. All of it.
And then he moved.
He stepped closer—one slow step. Not close enough to touch her, but her perfume found him, and his cologne—deep spice and clean heat—wrapped around her like smoke. Her lips parted without meaning to.
His hand lifted, hovering near her jaw.
Not touching. Not yet. But it made her knees weaken.
"Tell me something, Naya," he said, voice low and unhurried. "What would've happened if we hadn't caught you taking that picture?"
Her throat tightened. "Probably nothing."
He leaned in slightly, eyes dropping to her mouth.
"That'd be a shame."
Her entire body tensed—not out of fear. But the tension of something coiled, waiting to snap.
She didn't move. Couldn't.
It felt like her body had gone quiet just to hear what he'd say next.
Cole saw it.
His smirk deepened into something darker.
"You know…" His voice was softer now. Slower. "Since you took my picture without asking… I think you owe me."
Naya blinked. Heat flushed behind her ribs. "Owe you?"
He nodded, easy.
"Yeah. A little something for the trouble."
His gaze dropped again—to her lips, then the hollow of her throat.
Every glance from him was a fingerprint.
The air between them changed—charged with a pulse she couldn't ignore.
Naya exhaled. "God…"
He tilted his head, the gold at his wrist catching the light.
"Trust me?" he asked, quiet but certain.
His eyes, once teasing, had gone darker now. Focused. And suddenly, she knew he wasn't asking for permission.
He already had it.
Then—"Come here," he said.
Her breath stuttered. Her feet didn't move.
But her hand did.
She reached out.
He caught it gently—but firmly. Fingers wrapping around hers like a vow. His palm was warm. Sure. Possessive.
"Good girl," he murmured, just for her.
A shiver crawled down her back.
He turned, still holding her hand, leading her through the crowd without looking back. His body moved with a quiet authority, the kind that didn't ask—it commanded.
Lights flashed above—violet, red, gold—slicing through the haze. The bass pulsed like breath beneath her ribs.
His grip on her hand didn't loosen.
They stopped at the center of the floor. He turned toward her.
Close. Too close.
"You wanted something to feel?"
His breath brushed her ear.
"Let's see if we can make it last."
Then his hand slid to her waist.
Pulled her in.
And she let him.
Her body was tense—until it wasn't.
She moved with him, at first unsure. Her hands found his shoulders. They stayed there. He was warm beneath the fabric—strong, steady.
He didn't rush her.
He just danced.
His chest brushed hers. His hips teased—barely grazing, just enough to make her breath hitch.
Every time he touched her, something flared low in her stomach.
Something she didn't want to name.
She met his gaze.
He smiled.
Low. Knowing. Like he'd felt it too.
Their rhythm built—first cautious, then synced, then seamless.
Bodies in time with the beat. And something deeper.
His hand moved lower, finding the curve of her back. His thumb stroked the fabric—lazy, slow. Her skin burned through the silk.
The other hand hovered near her arm again. Not quite touching.
Just a whisper of presence. A threat of contact.
Naya's chest rose too fast. Her heart outpaced the music.
Then the song shifted.
New beat.
Low. Haunting.
But the voice wasn't new at all.
She turned her head.
And there she was.
Jenny.
Lit like a secret under stage lights—wine silk clinging to her frame, a smile barely held. She moved beside Dane like the moment had been choreographed for her.
Naya bit her lip, suppressing a grin.
Jenny's eyes found hers across the floor. That best-friend look.
Don't freak out. I'm freaking out.
Their whole childhood passed in that one glance.
Cole leaned in.
"You good?"
"Yeah." Naya's voice trembled slightly. "Now I am."
Jenny laughed at something Dane said, then spun beneath his arm—voice melting into the music.
And suddenly, Naya realized—
That voice was Jenny's.
No... Aria.
The anonymous girl with a million streams. But not the girl who made Naya cry in dorm rooms with unfinished lyrics and promises never to speak her real name again.
The world had fallen for Aria.
But Naya had always known Jenny.
She turned back to Cole—heart still racing, but steadier now. Sharper.
"You love Aria too?" he asked, curiosity flickering in his voice.
The question surprised her.
Naya looked down, then up.
"In a way," she said carefully.
She didn't elaborate. Couldn't.
But something flickered in his gaze. Like he knew she wasn't just talking about a playlist.
"She's got range," Naya murmured.
Cole smiled like he caught something she didn't say out loud.
Then his breath slid against her jaw.
Warm. Quiet.
"Let's go, Naya," he whispered.