Naya looked at him, and time exhaled—slow, heavy, hesitant.
She stepped back, searching for steadiness beneath the rush in her chest. Her cheeks flushed. She glanced down, then away—anywhere to hide the heat rising under her skin.
Cole's eyes stayed locked on her—dark and dangerous, as if he saw more than the black dress hugging her curves, more than the tequila-fueled confidence she wore like armor.
A low, controlled laugh escaped him, claiming the space between them.
"I'm Cole," he said, voice smooth now. "And you are?"
"Naya," she answered, voice shaky.
She heard her name echo and wished she'd said it stronger. But the way he looked at her—it did something reckless to her spine.
"Nice name. Suits you," he said, gaze flicking briefly to the wine tasting table where Dante and Jenny stood, then back to her.
She folded her arms, suddenly aware of how exposed she felt in that tiny dress beneath the weight of his stare.
He tilted his head, eyes sweeping her slowly—shamelessly—like he was memorizing her.
A smirk curved his lips.
"You always snap pics of men you're into… or am I just the lucky one tonight?"
Naya let out a breath, a smile teasing her lips as she looked away. Something fluttered in her chest—unnamed, unwelcome.
He watched her for a beat, amused.
Then he stepped closer.
Her perfume mingled with his cologne, thickening the space between them. His hand lifted—hovered near her jaw—but didn't touch.
"Tell me something, Naya," he said, voice low. "What would've happened if we hadn't caught you taking that picture?"
Her mouth went dry. "Probably nothing."
He smirked, eyes dropping to her lips.
"That'd be a shame."
She didn't move. Not out of fear—something else. Like her body didn't trust itself to lean in or pull away.
Cole saw it. His smirk deepened.
"You know," he said slowly, voice dropping lower—dangerous, deliberate, "since you took my picture without consent… I think you owe me."
Naya blinked, heart speeding. "Owe you?" she echoed.
He nodded. "Yeah. A little something for the trouble."
The air charged between them, his gaze flicking to her lips again—no longer just teasing.
Naya exhaled, barely a whisper. "God."
Cole tilted his head. "Trust me?"
His eyes darkened. The playful smirk faded into something else. He took another step, lifted his hand again.
"Come here," he said, low but sure.
Naya's breath hitched. She considered stepping back.
But she didn't.
She reached out, placed her hand in his.
His fingers closed around hers—firm, warm, possessive.
"Good girl," he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear.
He turned, leading her through the crowd toward the dance floor. His body moved with purpose, clearing a path.
Lights flashed overhead—color slicing through haze and pulsing bodies. She felt his heat pulse through her fingers like a dare, the grip unyielding.
They reached the center. He turned, pulling her close—so close the air between them barely existed.
"You wanted something to feel?" he whispered, lips brushing her ear. "Let's see if we can make it last."
He moved—hand on her waist, pulling her into the rhythm.
At first, Naya moved stiffly, unsure where to place her hands, unsure what to do with the tension spiking through her bloodstream. Her fingers found his shoulders—solid, warm—and stayed there.
He didn't push. He just danced.
Smooth. Focused. Like the beat lived inside him. His chest brushed hers, hips grazing—but the contact lit something dangerous in her blood.
She met his eyes.
He smiled—low, knowing.
Their bodies found rhythm. First slow. Then matching. Then melting.
Every time his hips touched hers, warnings fired in her mind. Too close. Too much. But her body drank it in—the heat of him, the scent of him, the way he moved like he knew what she needed.
She'd felt fire like this before—once, in a moment she swore she'd never chase again.
His hand slid to the small of her back, fingers spreading like a claim. His other hand traced her bare arm—not quite touching, just close enough to raise goosebumps.
Naya's heart raced. She tried to focus on the music.
Then the song shifted—low, haunting. A new beat poured from the speakers.
But the voice—smooth and smoky—wasn't new at all.
Naya turned her head.
And there she was.
Jenny.
Draped in wine silk and mystery, eyes locking with Naya's across the crowd like a secret passed between shadows. She moved beside Dante like the music belonged to her.
Naya bit her lip, suppressing a grin. Jenny's smirk said it first: Don't freak out. I'm freaking out.
They exchanged that one look—the kind only best friends can read mid-bass drop.
Cole leaned in, oblivious to the silent exchange.
"You good?"
"Yeah," Naya breathed. "Now I am."
Jenny laughed at something Dante said, then spun under his arm, voice blending into the music.
And just like that, Naya realized—the singer was her.
She turned back to Cole, pulse still racing, but a different kind of fire burned now.
Cole leaned closer, curious.
"You love Aria too?"
The question caught her off guard. Landed soft but deep.
Naya's smile twitched, then faltered slightly. Her gaze dropped to his chest, then the floor—like maybe the truth was hiding in the beat.
"In a way," she said.
She hated that name. Said it didn't feel like her.
But the world had fallen for Aria—not Jenny.
The girl who used to write sad songs in our dorm room and make me cry without meaning to. Who made me promise never to say her real name once the lights hit the stage.
She looked back up at Cole, voice steadier now.
"Let's just say... she's got range."
Cole smiled—like he caught something she didn't say. A flicker of understanding passed between them.
Then his breath skimmed her skin again, and everything else disappeared.
"Let's go, Naya," he whispered—like he already knew she would.