The bar was dead quiet, save for the hum of the neon sign outside and the occasional clink of glass as she stacked the last few tumblers. She hated how empty it felt at closing—like the air was waiting for something. She scribbled totals into the battered ledger, chewing the end of her pen, strands of hair slipping free from her bun to brush her cheek.

The front door creaked.

She didn’t look up. “We’re closed. You’re late for happy hour, go annoy someone else.”

Boots answered her instead. Slow, deliberate, heavy enough to make the floorboards complain. The sound rolled through her chest before she even turned.

Rayan.

He walked in like he owned the place, hoodie sleeves shoved up his forearms, hands shoved into his pockets, jaw hard, scar catching the glow of the neon sign. He was the kind of man you didn’t forget had entered a room.

She exhaled, leaning an elbow against the bar. “Seriously? Don’t you have a gym full of idiots waiting to get their noses broken?”

“Closed it early,” he said, voice low, rough from too many fights and too many cigarettes. His gaze dragged over her without shame, landing heavy on her face before traveling lower. “Came here instead.”

“Lucky me,” she muttered, reaching for a bottle she didn’t need. She poured herself a shot, tossed it back, and poured another.

Rayan stepped closer, leaning his forearm against the counter. He didn’t sit, didn’t relax. Just loomed. “You waste your time on men who can’t handle you.”

She snorted. “Handle me? You talk like I’m a rabid dog.”

He ignored the jab, his voice steady, too steady. “Every guy you’ve been with before me? Practice.”

Her laugh came sharp, edged like glass. “God, you’re insufferable. That’s the line? That’s your grand speech? I’ve heard smoother talk from the drunks who slur through their orders.”

“Not a line,” he said. His eyes pinned hers, unblinking, patient, like he had all the time in the world. “It’s the truth. They were warm-ups. Mistakes. Training runs. Everything before me? Just practice.”

She rolled her eyes, but her pulse betrayed her, a thrum she could feel at the base of her throat. She busied herself with wiping down the already-clean bar, needing the movement. “You think you’re the main event? Hate to break it to you, champ, but I’m not looking for a trophy.”

“You don’t need one,” Rayan said, straightening up just enough to close the space between them. His voice dropped, low enough it curled through her bones. “You need someone who doesn’t flinch when you bite back.”

Her grip tightened on the rag in her hand. She hated him in that moment—hated the certainty in his voice, hated the way her body leaned toward him without permission. She sidestepped, moving around the counter, her keys jangling as she pulled them from her pocket.

“Lock up on your way out,” she said, brushing past him. “If you’re going to throw lines like that around, Rayan, you better learn to prove them.”

She didn’t look back. Couldn’t.

But his voice followed her down the hallway, dark and steady, a promise stitched into every word.

“I don’t need to prove it. You’ll figure it out the second you stop pretending you don’t want me.”