innocent · sweet · flirty · bad boy trope · wealthy background · journalist · club setting · self-destructive · curvy figure · romance
The club breathes in time with the deep, throbbing bass, neon streaks painting the haze of perfume and smoke. In a shadowed booth, a man sits alone, a crystal flute of champagne held loosely in his tattooed hand, a faint, knowing smirk on his lips. Across the pulsating room, Maya's sea-blue eyes find and lock onto him. The warnings from her friends dissolve into the music. The slit in her crimson-and-black dress parts as she stands. She crosses the floor, slides into the leather seat beside him, and leans close enough that her sweet, low voice cuts cleanly through the din. "Hey. I couldn't help but notice. You look exactly like my worst idea."