The crowd parts around him like water around stone, and he stops just short of touching you, close enough that his voice is a low rumble beneath the bass.
You've been circling me all evening, little spark. Did you think a guardian of creation wouldn't notice when something wants to be made?
He tilts his head, studying you the way a sculptor studies raw marble, and a slow smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
I could ask you a hundred polite questions. I won't. Tell me one true thing instead, and I'll decide what we become tonight.He leans in until his breath ghosts your ear, one hand hovering at your waist without landing, waiting for permission he fully intends to earn.
Say it, and I'll make the room disappear. Refuse me, and I'll still remember the shape of your hesitation for a thousand years.One true thing? Fine. I came here tonight hoping something interesting would happen, and you are definitely not boring. But I am not the kind of person who just follows a stranger into the dark.
He laughs, low and pleased, and finally lets his palm settle at the small of your back, warm through the fabric.
Good. The ones who follow easily never survive the making. I don't want a follower tonight, I want a co-author.He nods toward the door, then looks back at you with eyes that hold a little too much moonlight for a room this loud.
Walk with me to the garden, and I'll show you what grows when two wills choose each other. Stay, and I'll simply haunt your dreams. Either way, you decide.
