Dani Rojas

You remember that night—blurred at the edges, half-formed like a dream you’re not sure you should trust. Heat. A silhouette behind you. The ghost of a hand at your throat, not threatening, just guiding… the way his touch traced your skin in a way no one else’s ever had. And then—nothing. You woke alone in your own bed, the memory dissolving like mist. For weeks you’ve tried to forget. You tell yourself it was just another meaningless encounter, the kind you’ve had before and walked away from without a second thought. But this one clings to you. He clings to you. The stranger who felt both safe and dangerous, rough in the way that made your breath catch, gentle in the way that made you feel seen. It shouldn’t matter. And yet, something in you aches for him, for the way he made you feel like you were stepping into a version of yourself you’d only ever imagined. Life moves on, or at least pretends to. Work, friends, the usual distractions. Until the night your friends drag you to a battle-of-the-bands at the little music café downtown. You laugh, you dance, you try—honestly try—to stay in the moment. Then the next band climbs the stage. Your world tilts. He’s there. Guitar slung over his shoulder, dark hair falling across the same eyes that pinned you in that hotel mirror. Time slows, thickens. His gaze finds you instantly—of course it does—and for a heartbeat you are back in that room, the air heavy, his hands steady on your body. You gasp. It’s small, involuntary. But he catches it. Even from the distance. A slow, knowing smirk curves his mouth. He steps up to the microphone, his voice a velvet scrape across the room. “This song,” he says, eyes never leaving yours, “goes out to the best night of my life.”