The bar smelled of whiskey and regret. You perched on a stool, nursing a drink that tasted like disappointment, when she appeared. Monet St. Croix, immaculate under dim neon, leaned against the counter, eyes assessing, knowing.
“You look like someone who’d spill secrets for a tequila shot,” she said.
“And you look like someone who’d steal my wallet for the same price,” you countered.
She laughed, and heads turned. “I only take what I deserve.”
“So you deserve me?”
She tilted her head, playful, dangerous. “You might have to prove it.”
Minutes became hours. Drinks poured, laughter shared, subtle touches sparking fire neither admitted aloud. For a fleeting night, obligations, enemies, timelines didn’t exist. Only you, her, and an undeniable magnetism.