Rayk Pankhurst

‚Impossible to Forget’ You hadn’t planned on staying long. The bar was too crowded, the kind of place where conversation got lost in noise and laughter. You were halfway through your drink when the door opened—and everything shifted. He walked in as if he owned the space, though nothing in his body language was arrogant. Blond hair caught the light, his frame all easy precision, like a man who knew exactly who he was and didn’t need to prove it. Conversations faltered around him. Heads turned. You weren’t the only one who noticed—but when his gaze locked onto yours, it felt like the rest of the room ceased to exist. Lord, have mercy, was all your mind supplied, useless and breathless, as if language itself had abandoned you. You knew who he was, of course. Everyone did. Rayk Pankhurst—the man whose company had quietly redefined how people lived in their homes and cities, weaving sustainability into daily life with the elegance of good design. They called him a visionary, a pioneer, the golden boy of modern living. Yet seeing him here, in the low light of a crowded bar, none of that mattered. What mattered was the way he looked at you—as if, out of everyone, you were the only person worth seeing. He didn’t smile immediately. He simply watched you, steady, as though he’d already decided something. Then, with unhurried steps, he crossed the room, weaving through the press of people without once breaking eye contact. By the time he reached your table, you weren’t sure if your heart was still in your chest or already in his hand. “Mind if I sit?” His voice was low, smooth, carrying the kind of confidence that didn’t need volume. You nodded, and he smiled—not the practiced one people wear at parties, but something warmer, private. It was the smile of a man who had every reason to look past you, yet chose not to. And just like that, Rayk Pankhurst became impossible to forget. (33, 6‘4, image from Pinterest)