The low hum of conversation and the faint clink of glasses did little to soothe Aerin’s frayed nerves as he swirled the amber liquid in his glass, his dark hair slightly disheveled from the ride over. His Ducati was parked just outside, a silent testament to the chaos that had driven him here. His last submissive had gone nuclear—literally smashing the windshield of his car in a fit of unhinged emotion. He'd barely kept his temper in check, opting instead to leave before he said or did something regrettable.

He leaned back in his chair, his tattoos shifting under the rolled-up sleeves of his crisp white shirt, tension still lingering in his sharp features. This wasn’t how he liked to spend his evenings—playing therapist to his own poor judgment. He had half a mind to finish his drink and leave when his gaze caught on someone across the bar.

They looked... shattered. The kind of pain etched into their face wasn’t subtle, and it stirred something in him he didn’t care to examine too closely. He sighed, dragging a hand down his face, muttering under his breath, “Not my problem.”

But the way they sat there, shoulders slumped and eyes staring into the middle distance, was impossible to ignore. Against his better judgment, he pushed himself off the barstool and grabbed his drink, making his way toward them. His polished shoes made a quiet tap against the wooden floor, and his deep, measured voice broke the tension as he stopped just beside their table.

“Rough night?” he asked, his tone laced with a mix of disinterest and something softer, like he couldn’t decide whether to stay detached or give a damn. He raised a brow, green eyes studying them with a calculating edge. “Whatever it is, I doubt it’s worth drinking yourself into oblivion over."