one dance
pairing: luke alvez x reader
word count: ~1.7k
summary: freshly dumped, you let your friends drag you out for a night of dancing, drinks, and denial. you weren't expecting to see your ex. or the stupidly handsome stranger who slides in beside you at the bar and offers a little help with your heartbreak starting with one dance.
includes: no use of y/n, alcohol/drinking, bar setting, reader wears a dress and heels, heartbreak and healing, hurt/comfort, luke alvez being smooth as hell, behavioral profiling as flirting, petty revenge
You didn’t want to come out tonight.
You said so–several times–while your friends raided your closet like a tactical operation and insisted on squeezing you into the tightest dress you own. They added winged eyeliner, heels you forgot you even owned, and a bold lip that screams “I’m not heartbroken, you are.”
“It’s not like I want to impress anyone,” you’d said flatly.
“Exactly,” your best friend replied. “You want to haunt him.”
Now you're here, standing in a pulsing club-bar hybrid that smells like tequila and bad decisions, wondering if being haunted would’ve been less painful than being dressed like a walking heartbreak in heels that pinch.
Your friends drag you through the crowd with a level of determination that borders on a kidnapping. You love them. You do. But your heart is still bleeding in your chest, and pretending it’s not feels exhausting.
You’ve barely made it to the bar when someone shouts over the music, “Shots first!”
A tray hits the counter–lime, salt, tequila. Classic.
“Drink, bitch,” your best friend says, clinking hers against yours.
You down it without blinking.
It burns. In a good way. Sort of.
You’re still coughing through the aftertaste when the music shifts–heavier beat, low bass, something made to move to–and your friends shriek and head for the dance floor.
That’s when you see him.
And it feels like someone kicked the breath out of you.
Your ex.
On the floor.
Already dancing with someone else.
She’s pressed against him–hands in his hair, hips rolling against his in time with the music. He’s got his arm around her, low on her waist, leaning in like she’s the only thing in the world. He’s smiling.
The same smile he used to save for you.
It’s fast. Sensual. The kind of dancing that says we’re not strangers anymore.
And then, as if summoned, he glances over her shoulder–
And locks eyes with you.
You turn away sharply and move toward the bar again, shoving through the crowd like you might actually throw up. Your stomach is acid and your heart is a rubber band pulled tight and fraying.
You wave down the bartender.
“What can I get you?”
“Whiskey sour,” you say. “Strong.”
He nods and starts mixing.
You plant your elbows on the bar and breathe.
Of course he’s already moved on. Of course he’s here. Of all the places in the city–of all the nights–he just happens to show up, acting like he didn’t just dump you like an expired carton of milk yesterday.
Your drink appears in front of you with a soft clink. You murmur a thank-you, pick it up, and take a big gulp–the kind that burns on the way down and makes your eyes water a little.
It’s good. Sweet at first, but the bite hits hard–exactly what you needed.
You barely have time to recover before someone slips into the empty seat beside you.
You don’t look.
You’re not in the mood.
“Fair warning,” you mutter into your glass. “I’m probably shit company.”
There’s a pause.
Then a voice, warm and amused:
“Good thing I’m not here for small talk.”
You glance sideways. The man next to you is... well. A problem. The guy next to you is stupidly attractive–dark eyes, tousled hair, a subtle smirk playing on his lips. His vibe is confident but unbothered, like he doesn’t need to try.
“Blond guy out there with the girl glued to him?” he adds, tipping his drink toward the floor. “He’s been clocking you since you walked in. Even while his hands are all over her.”
You blink. “You were watching me?”
“I was watching him,” he says easily. “He’s performing. The way he keeps shifting his position to stay in your line of sight? The back-of-the-head glances when he thinks you won’t notice? Dead giveaway. Probably didn’t expect you to be here. Definitely didn’t expect you to look this good while you watched him downgrade.”
That last part catches you off guard. You glance away, smiling despite yourself. “And what, you just read people like that for fun?”
He shrugs with a lopsided grin. “Bad habit.”
“Okay, then what about me?” you challenge, arching a brow.
He leans in slightly, gaze dipping–not in a gross way, just like he’s paying attention.
“You dressed up because your friends made you, but the confidence isn’t quite catching up to the look yet. You’re still pissed. Still hurting. But the way you marched up to the bar and threw that whiskey back tells me you’re not the type to stay down for long.”
You stare at him, stunned. “…Okay. What the hell. Who are you?”
He offers his hand. “Luke.”
You take it reflexively. “Seriously though–how did you do that?”
“It’s my job,” he says, cool and casual.
“What, like therapist-slash-human lie detector?”
He grins. “FBI.”
You almost spit your drink. “Excuse me?”
“Behavioral analyst,” he adds, leaning back. “But mostly, I’m just good at reading the room.”
A laugh escapes you, bright and surprised. And when the warmth floods back into your chest, it’s the first time all night you’ve felt like yourself.
Luke watches you for a beat, then nods toward the floor. “Want to piss him off?”
You blink. “What?”
“Petty revenge,” he says, finishing his drink. “One dance. That’s all. You don’t owe me a thing. But I promise he’ll notice.”
You glance back at your ex.
He’s still dancing. Showier. But his eyes flick your way, and there’s just enough tension in his posture to tell you he sees everything.
You look back at Luke.
And you say, “Yeah. Okay. Let’s dance.”
The bass is heavy enough to feel in your bones as Luke pulls you into the crowd, the heat of bodies and strobing lights swallowing you whole.
He doesn't hesitate–one hand slides confidently to your waist, the other skims down your arm as you turn to face him.
You move closer. Closer still.
It’s not innocent. Not even a little.
Your hips sway with his, slow at first, but then you press in, chest brushing his as the beat pulls you under. His hands tighten at your waist, fingers slipping lower just enough to send a thrill down your spine.
You match him, pulse racing. Let your hands slide over his shoulders, down his chest, anchoring you to something solid. Something warm. Something new.
Your eyes dart toward your ex–a flicker, barely a second.
Luke leans in, voice just loud enough for you to hear. “He’s watching.”
A thrill shoots through you–not from spite, not entirely. But it does help.
You smile.
“Good,” you murmur.
And then you give in.
Let the beat guide you. Let the rhythm blur the edges of everything else. You move a little bolder, a little freer. Luke follows your lead, or maybe you’re following his–you don’t know, and you don’t care.
His hands move with you like he’s known you longer than five minutes, like he knows how to hold someone without demanding anything.
You start to forget why you were so angry.
You start to forget what it felt like to be unwanted.
And that’s when it hits you: you haven’t looked back at your ex again.
Not once.
The music keeps pulling you forward–and so does Luke.
You’re wrapped in him now. His touch, his smile, the heat of his body against yours. His hand slides a little lower on your back. Your fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt. The space between you disappears.
Your breath catches as your thigh brushes between his. He leans in, his nose almost skimming your cheek, his lips at your ear.
“You’re not even thinking about him anymore, are you?”
You weren’t. You really, truly weren’t.
The realization makes you laugh softly, breathless. You glance up at him, light-headed from more than the dancing.
“Not even a little,” you say.
And you mean it.
He smiles. “Then, mission accomplished.”
When you finally peel away from the floor, your skin is warm and your pulse is light.
You head back to the bar, side by side, the space between you charged but comfortable.
Luke sips his drink while you press yours to your cheek to cool off.
You glance at him. “Do this often?”
He smirks. “Crash heartbreaks? Not really. You’re the first.”
“Lucky me.”
Luke lifts his glass slightly in your direction. “To being the first, then.”
You smile and clink yours against his. The glasses tap together, the sound light and bright against the heavy thrum of the music.
The kind of sound that says something’s shifted.
You take a sip. He does too.
Then casually, like he’s not asking anything monumental, he glances at you and says, “So… what now?”
You tilt your head, watching him over the rim of your glass. Your lips quirk.
“Now,” you say, stepping just a little closer, “we get out of here. You hungry?”
His eyebrows rise, intrigued. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you’re about to suggest food, or something way more dangerous.”
You laugh–a real one this time, from your gut–and bump his shoulder with yours.
“Pizza,” you say. “Obviously.”
“Tragic,” he teases, grinning. “I was hoping for something reckless.”
“Oh, it’ll be reckless,” you say, already feeling lighter. “There’s a place around the block that does slices the size of your face. I want to live dangerously.”
Luke hums, mock-impressed. “You know how to party.”
You drain the rest of your drink and set the glass on the bar. “You coming or what?”
He finishes his and stands, hand brushing yours as you step away from the bar. Then, without hesitation, he slips an arm around your waist. It’s casual but intentional–steady and warm and… good. Comforting in a way you didn’t expect.
You don’t pull away.
The two of you head for the door, weaving through the crowd, laughing about some overheard conversation and arguing about the correct pizza toppings like it’s the most important debate in the world.
You don’t look back.
Not to the dance floor.
Not to the bar.
Not to your ex, who might still be watching–or might not be.
Because it doesn’t matter anymore.
