Neon And Feathers

The club hums low, thick with smoke and secrets,
neon pooling in half-empty glasses.
I shift in my seat, adjust my sleeves.
My champagne sits untouched, bubbles ghosting at the rim.
The bass thrums against my ribs.
A laugh cuts through the noise, sharp and easy—
the sound of someone who belongs here.
I glance at the mirror behind the bar.
Dark denim, button-down, half undone.
Not a regular. Not the usual type.
I roll my sleeves like I mean to be here,
like I’ve got something to chase, something to burn for.
But I keep my hands wrapped around my glass.
Then—him.

Not on stage, not framed by spotlights,
but slipping between patrons with quiet precision.
Bare-chested, black bowtie, glasses catching the light.
Wings inked across his skin, stretched like a riddle I want to solve.
A fallen angel, maybe.
Or just a man who walked out of the fire still smirking.
I see him first.
Clock his movements, the way he reads the room.
Like a detective tracking a suspect.
Then his eyes land on me
Like he’s already figured something out.
I turn away.

He moves like a peacock, feathered in shadow,
shoulders rolling to the bassline, hips speaking in tongues.
Every gesture precise, deliberate—
a man who has used his beauty to win wars.
He drops into a stranger’s lap like an easy lie.
Lets them touch the ink on his chest, trace the lines of something dangerous.
A whisper in their ear, a smirk, a slow roll of his hips.
I shift in my seat, unsure where to look.
Wonder if I’m staring too much, not enough.
It’s an act, but a damn good one.
He plays the role too well—
the look, the charm, the practiced sin.
A man who could sell you a dream and make you beg for the price.
I expect him to linger, to stay wrapped around them,
but he peels away, like smoke slipping through fingers.
And then—he heads my way, and sits on the plush leather next to me.

"How ya goin'?"
Not what I was waiting for.
No cigarette-laced confession, no warning to stay away.
Just three words, clear, direct.
"Good," I say, my voice too small.
He nods, shifts his weight slightly.
Doesn’t loom, doesn’t push too close.
Keeps his hands at his sides, relaxed.
"Haven’t seen you here before," he says.
"Yeah. It’s... kinda obvious, huh?"
He shrugs.
"Nah. Just means you’re new. Nothing wrong with that."
And that’s it.
No slow smirk, no tangled game of questions.
He lets the silence sit, unbothered.
Gives me time to decide if I want to keep talking.
"Do you like working here?" I ask, before I can stop myself.
He thinks for a second. Shrugs.
"Yeah. It’s great. Good music, good people."
The champagne bubbles settle.
The fizz, the burn, the illusion—all softening.

The mirror catches my stare,
but the lone wolf is just that—
not a hardboiled detective, not a mystery man with a cigarette and a past,
just a girl in a club, halfway through a drink.
His wings aren’t scars, just ink and skin.
His glasses aren’t for seeing through lies,
just bad eyesight.
But I don’t let the thought land—not yet.
He shifts again, slow and careful.
"Do you want me to stay?" he asks, and I realise—
he means it.
Not a tease, not a line.
Just checking in, like he’s making sure I’m okay.
I nod.
He sits, just close enough to talk.
"So," he says, adjusting his glasses, "what brings you here?"
"Guess I just wanted to visit somewhere new,“ I admit. "There’s not a lot of joints like this where I’m from.”

The night moves forward, unburdened.
No crimes solved, no hearts broken.
He grins,—easy, open.
"Take care," he says, and means it.
I lift my glass, drain the last sip of illusion.
It’s just champagne.
It’s just a Saturday.
It’s just a man, walking away.