It was a dive bar. The kind with sticky floors, classic rock humming from an old jukebox, and a bartender who didn’t bother with small talk. You weren’t even supposed to be there—just passing through the town, stopping for gas and a moment to breathe. But the neon sign had called to you, soft and buzzing like a secret.

Joel Miller was already there when you walked in, sitting alone at the end of the bar with a glass of something amber and a look that warned people to keep their distance. He had that rough-around-the-edges thing going—salt-and-pepper stubble, broad shoulders, and tired eyes that had seen too much. You noticed him immediately. You didn’t expect him to notice you.

But he did.

You took the stool two down from his. Just far enough not to assume anything. Just close enough that if he looked your way, he couldn’t miss you.

The bartender brought you a whiskey. You hadn’t ordered yet.

Joel spoke before you could ask. “You look like you needed one.”

You turned to him, eyebrows raised. “That obvious?”

He gave the ghost of a smirk. “A little.”

You picked up the glass and took a sip, letting the burn settle in your chest. “Thanks, stranger.”

“Joel,” he said, nodding once.