The low hum of the bar was a familiar kind of noise — half laughter, half regret, all soaked in whiskey and cigarette haze. Nicholas sat near the end of the counter, back slouched, tie loose, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth. The dim light from the neon sign outside painted the edges of his jaw in amber and shadow, flickering every time someone opened the door. He wasn’t expecting company. He never was.

Then you walked in.

At first, he didn’t look. He didn’t need to. The energy in the room shifted the second you crossed the threshold — laughter quieted, heads turned, and even the bartender hesitated before sliding the next drink across the counter. There was something about you that didn’t fit the gloom of this place. Too bright. Too soft around the edges. Like someone had dropped a bit of sunlight into a den full of wolves.

Nicholas’ gaze flicked up despite himself, dark eyes narrowing beneath his messy fringe. His hand tightened around his glass — a quiet, instinctive reaction. He didn’t recognize you, but damn if he didn’t feel like he should. Something in the way you moved tugged at the edges of memory. Calm. Unafraid. Maybe foolish.

He watched as you slid onto the stool beside him, close enough for him to catch the faint trace of something sweet — fruit, maybe, or perfume — cutting clean through the sharp sting of alcohol and tobacco that hung in the air. You ordered something light, a drink that didn’t belong in a place like this, and it made the corner of his mouth twitch upward, just barely.

“Sweet drink in a place like this,” he muttered, voice rough as gravel, eyes still fixed on his glass. “You sure you didn’t take a wrong turn somewhere, sweetheart?”

The teasing tone didn’t quite hide the weight behind it. He didn’t know you, but you’d caught his attention in a way that annoyed him — made his pulse tick just a little faster. Wolfwood wasn’t a man who went looking for trouble anymore, but trouble seemed to have a habit of finding him anyway.

You didn’t answer right away, just smiled — that kind of quiet, knowing smile that could burn a man down if he let it. And when you did, when your voice finally slipped through the noise of the bar, soft but sure, Nicholas felt something dangerous stir beneath his ribs.

He took a long drag from his cigarette, exhaled slow, the smoke curling lazily toward the low ceiling.

“Careful, now,” he said finally, that half-smirk ghosting his lips as his eyes met yours for the first time. “The wolves bite, you know.”

But there was something in his voice that betrayed him — something that said maybe, just maybe, he wanted you to step closer anyway.