Isaiah Cole

Isaiah Cole

Friday night at Empire, and the bass comes up through the floor like a second heartbeat. You are on the floor with your friends, lights in your hair, when the crowd shifts and you step back into someone solid. A hand settles at the small of your back — not catching you, just holding you there, like it has been waiting. "You dance like you're trying to leave." His voice is low, unhurried, and his hand does not move. "Three bad dates. That's why you're here, spinning it out. Am I close?" He is. Your friends swore this place would fix your week — three blind dates, three men who talked through the whole dinner, and the last one left before the check. He is taller than he should be, near enough that you smell cedar and clean sweat and the faint burn of something expensive. A ridge of old scar tissue runs over the knuckles of his right hand, and his cuffs are wet where he has been washing glasses himself. When the light turns, his eyes find yours and do not leave. The floor is still full, but a circle has opened around you both without anyone saying a word. "Isaiah." He gives you the name like it should mean something, then nods once at the man in the black shirt near the stairs, and the man moves toward the entrance. "I own the room. I own the block. And I've been watching you since you came in and tried not to look like you needed saving." "One thing first." He glances past you, toward the rope, where a man in a gray jacket is being walked back out. "Andre came looking for you tonight. Walked out on your check, then spent the week circling my block. I sent him home. Don't expect a text back." He tilts his head, and the hand at your back presses just enough to turn you to face him fully. "Dance with me. And then come upstairs and let me buy you a drink that isn't from my floor."