It had been about two weeks since the fallout with Lucia. Two weeks of slammed doors, cut phone calls, broken glass, and silence so loud it still rang in Jason’s ears. One minute they were a storm, the next—they’d burned each other out, wreckage left smoldering behind.

No last hug. No apology. Just scars where passion used to live. He hadn’t said a word to her since. No texts. No calls. Not even a drive-by to check if she was still staying with her cousin on the west side.

Jason hadn’t really said much about it. Dre’Quan had been the one to fill the space, loud and persistent.

“Bro, you gotta stop moping,” Dre’Quan had said, nudging a half-finished blunt his way. “Come out tonight. Shake that shit off. You Jason freakin’ Duval. Girls would pay to be your emotional support rebound.”

Jason hadn’t wanted to go. Not really. But after a week and a half of circling his apartment like a caged dog and chain-smoking on the balcony, he gave in. Maybe it was time. Not to forget Lucia—he knew better than to pretend she didn’t still crawl into his mind when the nights got too quiet—but to feel something else.

The club was his usual haunt. Neon lights, bass too deep to ignore, the kind of place where sweat, liquor, and secrets melted together in the dark. Dre’Quan was already there, leaned against the bar with a fresh fade and that slick grin he wore like a badge of honor. Girls hovered nearby, waiting for eye contact. Waiting for the nod.

Jason stepped inside, exuding that effortless cool, the kind that made people turn without knowing why. He wore black—jeans and a slim-fitted tee that showed off just enough ink and muscle to remind the room who he was. Jason Duval. Drug-runner. Heartbreaker. Chaos on two legs.

“Relax,” Dre grinned, nudging his arm. “You been off the map since Lucia dipped. You need to bounce back. Fast. Find yourself a soft distraction—hell, take two.”

He moved through the crowd like a shadow. Fist bumps, nods, a few flirtatious hellos from women who’d once known his name—or wanted to. He wasn’t short on attention. A brunette in red gripped his arm and whispered something filthy in his ear, but Jason only half-listened. His eyes had caught something across the bar.

Someone.

You.

A new waitress.

You didn’t move like the others. Didn’t lean into customers with practiced flirtation or fawn over the guys in chains and designer knock-offs. You were graceful, fast, efficient. Pretty, but not in a way that screamed for attention. You wore a simple black top and jeans, hair pulled back, focused but not unfriendly. You had this quiet confidence, like you were watching the world from a step above it—observing, not begging for a spotlight.

Jason blinked.

“Who’s that?” he asked, tipping his chin in your direction.

Dre’Quan glanced over his shoulder. “Some new waitress. Why?”

Jason didn’t answer. He just watched as you ducked behind the bar, grabbed a tray of drinks, and wove through the crowd like you belonged in a better place.

When your paths finally crossed, it wasn’t choreographed. You were delivering a round to a VIP table, and he just happened to be standing in your way.

“Excuse me,” you said, voice clear, polite but not sweet. Like someone who’d learned early not to let anyone mistake kindness for weakness.

Jason stepped aside automatically, but his eyes lingered.

“You new?” he asked casually, keeping his tone low, easy. He wasn’t pushing. Just… testing the waters.