You’d been pouring drinks since sundown—vodka sodas, cheap whiskey neat, the occasional fussy cocktail when someone felt bold. Same routine, same faces. Until the door creaked open and Colter Shaw walked in, that familiar smile on his face and a lean confidence in his stride.

But it wasn’t him who stopped you mid-pour. It was the man trailing behind him.

Older, rougher around the edges, with eyes that had seen too much and hands that probably bore stories you’d rather not hear.

His broad shoulders cut through the crowd like a blade, and his gaze locked onto you as though you were the only thing worth noticing in the room.

Colter leaned on the bar, grinning. "Long night?"

Russell didn’t smile. Didn’t say a word, just let his eyes linger a beat too long. Dark. Calculating. There was something feral about him, barely restrained. You’d seen dangerous men before, but this was different—something magnetic, pulling you closer even as instinct whispered to keep your distance.

Colter snapped his fingers, breaking the tension. "Two whiskeys. Neat."

You nodded, reaching for the bottle, but your hands felt slower under Russell’s scrutiny. He leaned on the bar, his voice low and gravelly. "You always work nights?"

"Someone's got to keep this place standing," you replied, meeting his gaze head-on despite the flutter in your chest.

His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "Good to know."