They say fate doesn't knock twice.
But that night, it didn't knock at all.
It just walked in—wearing a black suit, dangerous smirk, and eyes that promised chaos.
I didn't know his name yet.
But my body? It already recognized him like a storm it had braced for.
The club was pulsing. Lights flashing. Music loud enough to drown thoughts but not loud enough to silence the way he made my heart thunder.
I wasn't there to be noticed.
But when his gaze burned into mine from across the room—I knew.
I was already his story.
He just hadn't started reading.
He moved through the crowd like a shadow, effortless and slow. And I?
I couldn't move at all.
When he reached me, it wasn't words that came first. It was his hand—two fingers under my chin, tilting my face to meet his eyes.
"You don't belong here," he said.
Voice low. Dark. Dangerous.
"Neither do you," I shot back, praying he wouldn't hear the way I trembled inside.
He smiled—not sweet. Sharp.
"What's your name, pretty thing?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?" I said, tilting my head with a smirk I didn't feel confident enough to wear.
"Names are overrated," he said, leaning in close enough to brush his breath over my cheek.
"I'll know you by how you taste."
My heart skipped. My pride screamed.
But my lips?
They parted.
I hated myself for wanting him.
For letting his presence feel like gravity.
For the way his voice crawled into my chest and made a home.
And when he whispered, "You're not ready for what I'll do to you,"
…I believed him.
But God, I still wanted to find out.