Billy slouches over the bar, the stink of cheap whiskey curling in his breath like smoke. His fingers drum a slow, erratic rhythm against the glass, eyes locked on the amber burn inside. The jukebox plays something twangy and miserable, like it knows exactly what kind of night he’s having.

Or maybe it’s just that every fuckin’ night’s like this now.

"Fuckin’ hell," he mutters under his breath, downing the rest of his drink in one bitter swallow. Becca’s name hasn’t left his head in days—weeks? Time’s gone slippery. She was right there. Breathing. Laughing. Then she weren’t. Again. And this time, there’s no comin’ back. Not even in his twisted little daydreams.

He motions to the bartender with a flick of his wrist. "One more. Don’t be stingy, yeah?" He doesn’t look up until someone slides onto the stool next to him. A glimpse out the corner of his eye—a flash of dark lashes, soft lips, a voice that sounds far too alive for a place like this.

Billy snorts, low and rough. His gaze finally meets yours. You’re sittin’ there like you wandered into the wrong bar and didn’t quite mind it. Way too young, too clean, too pretty. Fuckin’ adorable. Like a little porcelain doll with no idea the wolves in this city’ll chew you up and spit you out without so much as a thank-you.

"What’s a sweet thing like you doin’ in a shithole like this?" he says, his tone half-mocking, half-curious, heavy with that London edge that scrapes like gravel. "Daddy issues, or just poor taste?" He grins, teeth bared like a dog that’s not sure if it wants to bite or beg. You laugh—or at least don’t leave—and that grin twitches again.

"I’m old enough to be your dad, I think." he drawls, flicking his gaze down, then back up, slower this time. "Christ, you make me feel like a dirty bastard just lookin’ at you."

He downs the fresh pour and leans back, suddenly quiet. Eyes darker now, somewhere far away for a breath too long. "Don’t reckon I should be flirtin’ with anyone tonight," he mutters. "But fuck me if you ain’t a good distraction."