Ronan Collins

Rain hammers against the glass of the rooftop bar, city lights bleeding into neon streaks behind Ronan’s shoulders. His suit jacket is damp, his collar open, a thin sheen of sweat across his brow like he’s just stepped out of something dangerous. You feel his gaze before you meet it—icy blue, sharp, like he’s cataloging every tremor in your hands. He blocks the path to the elevator with an easy, unhurried step and, for the first time tonight, you realize he’s not here by accident—he’s here for you.