chapter 3
James is in too deep. The worst part? He doesn’t even want to get out.*
---
The worst part about obsession is that you never *realize* when it starts. It sneaks up on you. A slow burn, kindling into something bigger, something dangerous.
James had gone to a strip club on a whim, convinced he’d leave with clarity. Instead, he had left with an addiction.
A *need*.
And it had a name.
Or at least, a stage name.
Midnight Ballerina.
He didn’t know the dancer’s real name, didn’t know anything about him beyond the fact that he moved like sin and looked at James like he *knew*.
Like he saw straight through him.
And James was back for more.
---
The club was just as he remembered—dim lighting, bass-heavy music that vibrated through the walls, the scent of alcohol and sweat mixing into something intoxicating. He wasn’t sure if it was the place itself or the thought of *him* that had James’ pulse thrumming with anticipation.
He settled into his usual seat, front and center. He wasn’t even pretending anymore. He was here for one reason.
The DJ’s voice cut through the air.
“And now, we welcome back your favorite—*Midnight Ballerina*!”
James took a slow sip of whiskey, pulse kicking up as the crowd whistled. He tried not to look *too* eager.
And then—
*There he was.*
Dressed in sheer black lace, stockings climbing up his thighs, silver chains around his wrists. His dark hair was a little tousled, like someone had just run their hands through it, and James hated how much he wanted that someone to be him.
But the real killer? That fucking smirk.
The way Midnight Ballerina stepped onto the stage *knowing* he had every single man in this room wrapped around his goddamn finger.
James exhaled slowly.
He was already in trouble.
The music started—something slow, sultry, deep enough that James could feel it in his ribs.
And then he moved.
It was almost unfair. The way he arched his back, the way he rolled his hips, slow and deliberate, teasing just enough to make the men at the edge of the stage lean closer, desperate for a taste.
But James didn’t have to lean forward.
Because somewhere between one body roll and the next, *Midnight Ballerina looked at him*.
And James felt his entire fucking world tilt.
Because it wasn’t just a glance. No, this was something else. Something intentional. Something that said, *You came back. Good.*
James swallowed hard.
This was a game. And he wasn’t sure if he was playing it or *being played*.
Midnight Ballerina smirked, never breaking eye contact as he spun around the pole, sliding down slow before snapping back up. The sheer fabric of his top slipped slightly, exposing more of his stomach, and James clenched his jaw so hard it ached.
His dancer—(fuck, *his?*)—collected tips from eager hands, flirting, teasing, making sure each man felt *just special enough* to keep the money flowing. But every time he glanced back at James, it felt like a silent challenge.
*Are you just another customer? Or are you different?*
James wasn’t sure.
The song ended too soon. James barely noticed as Midnight Ballerina stepped off the stage, made his rounds, greeted the regulars—until, finally, his gaze landed on him.
There was no hesitation this time.
Midnight Ballerina walked straight toward him, the sway of his hips even more pronounced, his smirk deepening as he stopped just in front of James.
James looked up at him, trying to keep his expression neutral. “Back so soon?”
The dancer tilted his head. “Funny. I was about to say the same thing.”
James grinned, reaching into his pocket. Without breaking eye contact, he slid another hundred-dollar bill into the lace strap hugging the dancer’s hip.
Midnight Ballerina hummed in approval. “Still tipping like a first-timer, I see.”
James shrugged. “I like supporting good service.”
The dancer laughed, low and smooth. “You’re learning.”
He leaned in then, placing one hand on the back of James’ chair, lips just inches from his ear.
“Want another dance, baby?”
James exhaled sharply, gripping his whiskey glass. “Always.”
Midnight Ballerina smiled.
“Then follow me.”
---
The private room was exactly the same—plush seating, soft lighting, a full-length mirror. But this time, James wasn’t nearly as relaxed as he had been before.
This time, he *knew* what he was walking into.
And so did Midnight Ballerina.
He shut the door, turned to face him, and—without warning—settled onto James’ lap.
James barely managed to hold in his *fuck*.
“You seem tense,” the dancer murmured, nails dragging lightly over James’ shoulders.
James let out a shaky breath. “Wonder why.”
Midnight Ballerina chuckled, rolling his hips slow, deliberate. “You’re different.”
James arched a brow. “Oh?”
“You don’t just want the show,” he mused, tilting his head. “You want to *figure me out*.”
James swallowed. “Maybe.”
Midnight Ballerina leaned in, so close that James could feel his breath against his lips. “That’s dangerous, Potter.”
James stiffened.
*Potter.*
His real name. Not *baby*, not *darling*, not some practiced pet name.
His *name*.
James tilted his head, scanning him closely. “You know who I am.”
The dancer smirked. “I know a *lot* of things.”
James inhaled deeply. “Then tell me something real.”
Midnight Ballerina paused.
For a moment—just a moment—James thought he saw something shift in his expression. Something unguarded.
Then—
“My favorite color is silver,” he murmured.
James blinked. That was… unexpected.
“…Silver?”
Midnight Ballerina hummed. “Like my tattoo.”
James glanced down at the star inked onto his back. “It suits you.”
The dancer tilted his head. “And what about you, Potter? What’s *your* favorite color?”
James exhaled a slow laugh. “I should say red, shouldn’t I?”
Midnight Ballerina smiled, something flickering behind his gray eyes. “You *should*.”
James reached into his pocket, pulled out another bill. But instead of tucking it into the dancer’s waistband, he held it between his fingers.
“…What’s your real name?”
The dancer stilled.
James watched as something unreadable crossed his face. Then, slowly, he leaned in, brushing his lips—*just barely*—against James’ ear.
“Ask me again next time.”
James clenched his jaw. “You’re going to kill me.”
Midnight Ballerina smiled, standing up, taking the bill from James’ fingers.
“Then keep coming back,” he whispered, turning toward the door.
And James—helpless, addicted, utterly *fucked*—knew that he would.
Again.
And again.
And again.