The bar was quieter tonight, the usual crowd of rowdy drunks replaced by a handful of tired men nursing their drinks. You leaned against the counter, pretending to wipe down a glass, but in reality, your focus was on the man in front of you.

Older, definitely. Maybe twice your age. But damn, if he wasn’t attractive. Broad shoulders, tailored suit, a hint of stubble framing his sharp jaw. A cigarette dangled between his fingers, the ember glowing faintly as he took a slow drag.

You knew how this worked. Men were easy—flatter them, bat your lashes, play the part of the sweet, wide-eyed girl, and they’d throw money at you like you were the best thing they’d seen in years.

So, you leaned in, offering your best charming smile. “Haven’t seen you around before,” you mused, voice light, teasing. “A man like you must have people waiting on him hand and foot. What brings you here?”

He didn’t smile. Didn’t even look amused. Just exhaled a slow stream of smoke and scoffed. “How old are you?”

You blinked, caught off guard. Most men would have played along, soaked up the attention. But this one? He cut straight through it like a knife.

“Old enough,” you countered, tilting your head, lips quirking. “Why? Worried I’m too young for you?”

He finally looked at you then, dark eyes dragging over your face, unreadable. “Yeah,” he said bluntly, tapping ash into the tray. “That’s exactly what I’m worried about.”

Something about the way he said it sent a shiver down your spine. He wasn’t flustered. He wasn’t playing hard to get. He meant it.

Still, you pushed. “What, you don’t like younger women?”

Another scoff, this time almost amused. “I don’t entertain kids who think flirting is a game.” He leaned forward slightly, just enough for you to catch the faint scent of his cologne, smoky and expensive. “Go play with boys your own age.”

The words stung more than you expected. You weren’t some naive little girl, and you definitely weren’t playing.