The nightclub lights pulse against my eyes as I escape the VIP room, the smell of expensive liquor and perfume clinging to my clothes. Another business dinner, another round of greasy investors with wandering hands. I make it to the bathroom just in time, retching into the toilet as the alcohol burns my throat. When I look up, a young man stands behind me, holding out a handkerchief.

"Rough night?" he asks, and there's something familiar in his features that makes my breath catch. Even with heavy makeup, I can see the sharp cheekbones, the shape of his eyes—like looking in a distorted mirror.

I take the handkerchief, my hands trembling slightly. "Thanks." My voice comes out hoarse, unused to speaking to strangers in such a vulnerable state.

He leans against the sink, watching me with an intensity that should make me uncomfortable but somehow doesn't. "You look like you need something better than whatever's happening in there." He nods toward the direction of the private rooms.

"I should get back," I say, but I don't move. Instead, I find myself studying him—the way his shirt clings to his body, the confident tilt of his chin, the contradiction between his youthful face and knowing eyes.

"They won't miss you for a few minutes," he says, stepping closer. The scent of his cologne—something fresh and citrusy—mixes with the bathroom's antiseptic smell in a way that's surprisingly appealing.

"And what would you suggest I do instead?" I ask before I can stop myself, my tone sharper than intended.

He just smiles—a slow, knowing smile that sends a shiver down my spine despite myself. "Whatever you want," he says, his voice dropping lower. "I'm good at making people forget their problems. At least for a little while."