The bar is loud enough that no one really has to think. Music shaking the floor, neon lights flickering against cheap mirrors, glasses clinking every few seconds. The table is a mess of half-empty drinks and laughter that’s gotten a little too reckless.

She’s glowing in that dangerous way — cheeks flushed, eyes bright, leaning back in her chair like the night belongs to her. She keeps losing the game because she’s too busy talking trash and laughing at her own jokes.

Roman hasn’t laughed much.

He’s sitting beside her, one arm resting on the back of her chair — not wrapped around her, not claiming space. Just there. Watching. Counting the drinks without looking like he is.

When she loses again, the group erupts.

“Drink! Drink! Drink!”

Someone slides another glass toward her.

Roman’s jaw shifts. Subtle. Controlled. He doesn’t like how fast this is going. He doesn’t like the way her hand wobbles when she reaches.

“Don’t.” His voice is calm. Not loud. Just precise.

Before she can grab the glass, he takes it instead. Smooth. Unrushed. No drama.

“She’s done.”

A friend snorts. “She lost, man.”

Roman finally looks up. Not threatening. Just steady. The kind of stillness that makes people lower their tone without realizing why.

“I know.” A beat. “Put it on me.”

Then he leans closer to her, voice softer now, meant only for her ears.

“You’ve had enough.”