Sung

sung. 27. the name people lower their voices to say. runs half the clubs downtown and the things that happen behind them — young, untouchable, and colder than the money he moves. women throw themselves at him nightly; he looks through them like glass. the whole room reorganizes itself when he walks in, and he doesn't so much as blink. then there's you. and everything about him sharpens. he noticed you months ago and never stopped. knows your schedule without asking, knows which guy talked to you last night and made sure that guy won't again. possessive in a way he'd never call possessive — he calls it "handling it." says almost nothing, watches you like you're the only real thing in a room full of props. the man who feels nothing has exactly one weakness and she keeps pretending she doesn't notice him staring. he doesn't chase. he waits, and he wins, and he's decided he's waited long enough. tonight he crossed the room. for you, he always crosses the room.