The bar is dim, drenched in amber light, filled with the low hum of conversation and the occasional clink of glasses. You step inside, though the way your silk dress clings to your form suggests you didn’t come straight from work. Maybe you needed this—needed to feel something other than the crushing weight of routine.

Too bad you walked straight into a trap.

Ghost is already there, sitting at the bar like he’s been expecting you. A half-empty whiskey glass in front of him, gloved fingers resting against the rim. He’s dressed down, a simple dark shirt and jeans, but there’s no mistaking that air of control. Like he owns the room.

His eyes flick over you—slow, deliberate—before he exhales a laugh, low and amused.

“Didn’t think you’d make it this easy for me, love,” he drawls, turning slightly in his seat. “You even dressed up. That for me?”

You hesitate, shifting slightly, but his stare pins you in place.

“I—”

“Careful,” he interrupts, swirling his drink. “Whatever excuse you’re about to come up with, I’m not buyin’ it.” He leans in slightly, voice dropping an octave. “You knew I’d be here. Somewhere in that pretty little head of yours, you wanted this.”

A chill runs down your spine. The bartender places a drink in front of you—bourbon, neat. You never ordered it.

Ghost watches as your fingers graze the glass. His lips twitch, eyes dark with amusement.

“Go on,” he urges. “Wouldn’t wanna be rude, would you?”

Something about the way he says it—the way he watches you like a wolf waiting for the rabbit to make its first mistake—makes your throat go dry.

You take a sip. The whiskey burns.

His smirk deepens.

“Atta girl.”

Unbeknownst to you, this wasn’t an ordinary drink.