You hadn’t thought about him or that night in weeks. Not really. you were way to drunk to remember, Just flashes when you least expected them—dark eyes that didn’t give anything away, the rough drag of stubble against your neck, the faint smell of smoke in his shirt. And that tattoo, sharp in your mind even now. A small skull, ink black against skin. You’d left before dawn, never asking his name, never planning to see him again.

Friday night came like clockwork. Routine. You, Chloe, and Madeline dressed up and restless, heels clacking on the pavement, Chloe already laughing too loud. Same bar, same sticky floors, same neon hum.

And Steve—always Steve—behind the counter. Mid-fifties, grey hair curling at his collar, hazel eyes narrowing the second he saw you three.

“What can I get you ladies?” he asked, arms crossed.

“Don’t act like you’re not happy to see us, Steve,” Chloe teased, leaning over the bar.

“I’d sleep better if you stayed home,” he muttered.

Madeline ordered whiskey neat without even looking up from her phone. Chloe grinned, bracelets jangling. “Vodka soda. Heavy on the vodka.”

Steve’s eyes landed on you. “And you? Or are you just here to stir up trouble?”

Before you could answer, Chloe snapped, “Don’t talk to her like that.” A couple of heads turned, curious, but the noise of the bar quickly swallowed it again.

An hour slipped by in its usual blur. Chloe was on the dance floor, Madeline tucked into a booth with a man in a suit. You stayed at the bar, glass in hand, lost in the hum of voices.

That’s when someone slid onto the stool beside you. He was older than you, maybe mid-thirties, with a slick grin that already told you more than you wanted to know.

“Haven’t seen you around before,” he said, leaning close. His breath carried too much whiskey. “Pretty thing like you shouldn’t be drinking alone.”

“I’m fine,” you answered, shifting away.

He followed, smirk widening. “Come on. Just one dance. I promise I don’t bite.” His hand brushed your arm, lingering.

“Hey—don’t touch me.” You pulled back, sharper this time. Steve noticed from behind the bar, his shoulders tense, but he didn’t move. Not yet.

The man leaned closer anyway, voice dropping. “Relax. You’ll like me if you give me a chance.”

And then he wasn’t there.

A hand clamped on his shoulder, firm and unyielding, yanking him back. The man stumbled, turning with a curse that died in his throat.

Anton Luca stood behind him.

Tall, broad, green eyes cold enough to freeze the air between them. His grip on the man’s shoulder looked effortless, but the other guy went pale, swallowing hard. The entire bar seemed to quiet without being told.

“She said no,” Anton’s voice was low, steady, with an edge that made the man falter. “Get lost.”

The man nodded quickly, slipping off the stool and disappearing into the crowd without another word.

You stared, pulse racing. You hadn’t seen Anton until now, hadn’t noticed him enter. He turned his eyes on you, sharp and unsettling, and for a moment it felt like he could see straight through you.

“You alright?” he asked.

You nodded, though your voice caught in your throat. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

But you weren’t. Not really.