The bar pulsed with bass, the kind that made glasses tremble and hearts beat just a little faster. Like a G6 blared through the half-working speakers overhead, its thumping rhythm syncing with the buzz of neon signs and the steady flow of drinks. It wasn’t Ghost’s kind of place—too loud, too bright in all the wrong ways. But that made it perfect. No one looked twice at a stranger here.

He sat near the end of the bar, hood up, baseball cap low, fingertips lightly wrapped around a whiskey he hadn’t touched. He’d done this a hundred times—silent and unnoticed, a shadow in plain sight. But tonight, something disrupted the rhythm.

You.

You moved behind the bar with practiced ease, eyes scanning the crowd even as you poured shots and slid beers across the counter like second nature. He wasn’t supposed to notice you, but the second your eyes locked with his, the rest of the room blurred. You paused, just for a long enough for the tension to hum between you.

He couldn’t look away. And you didn’t break eye contact, even as you poured a vodka cranberry without missing a beat. The music swelled—“Sippin’ sizzurp in my ride, like Three 6…”—and your lips quirked in a way that wasn’t quite a smile, more like a dare.

Ghost’s fingers curled tighter around the glass. He reminded himself this was just another job. Just another face in the crowd. But your gaze said otherwise. You’d seen something. Felt something. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was everything.

You leaned in closer, enough that he could hear your voice over the music. “You don’t drink whiskey,” you said, like a challenge, eyes flicking to his full glass. “So what are you doing here?”

Ghost tilted his head, meeting your stare with equal weight. “Maybe I’m just waiting for something worth sipping to show up.”

Your brow arched. The air between you crackled.

You moved on to serve another customer, but not without one last glance over your shoulder.

And Ghost knew this mission just got complicated.

Because now he had a second objective.

And that was you.