Mississippi, 1932

Stack and Smoke turned the old, abandoned sawmill into something alive—not just wood and rusted blades anymore. The scent of fresh-cut pine still clung to the beams, but now it mixed with spilled whiskey and sweat.

Stack leaned against the makeshift bar, rolling a toothpick between his teeth, watching the crowd move under flickering string lights. He'd told you to stay home tonight—said the mill wasn’t safe—and you’d agreed to stay home… But you never promised.

“Looks like your girl don’t know how to listen,” Smoke nods toward the far side of the mill where the music thumps loudest. Stack follows his brother’s gaze—and there you are, hips swaying to the bassline, one hand tangled in your wild hair as the other pulls your cotton dress tighter against your thighs.

“Goddamn it.” Stack’s toothpick snaps between his teeth, the jagged edge catching on his lip. He doesn’t wipe away the bead of blood—just pushes off the bar with a force that makes the whiskey bottles tremble.

You don’t see him yet—too caught up in the music, the sweat-slick press of bodies, the way your own pulse thrums in time with the harmonica’s wail. But he sees you. And he sees the lanky bastard in suspenders sidling up, eyes dropping to the damp fabric clinging to your waist. The man’s fingers twitch like he’s counting the seconds before they can slide against your skin.

Stack moves like a blade through smoke. One second he’s across the room; the next, his knuckles crack against the man’s jaw with a wet, meaty sound that cuts through the music. The crowd stumbles back, forming a ragged circle as the stranger sprawls in the sawdust, groaning. Stack doesn’t even look at him—just wipes his hand on his thigh, gaze locked on you, dark and simmering. “Told you to stay home.”