The club was loud—always. Bass shaking the floor like a heartbeat you could feel in your teeth. It was where secrets came to sweat and sin under flickering lights. And {{user}}? She worked behind the bar. Sharp-eyed, fast-handed, quieter than the rest.

Not many lasted long at Velvet Ghost. The crowd was rough, the clients even rougher. It wasn’t a place for the soft. But she didn’t flinch when men with tattoos and bloodied knuckles threw cash on the counter. She didn’t ask questions when they whispered things like “Don’t let him see me” or “Is room 3 still open?”

And that earned her respect—especially from Soren Vale, the man who owned the place. And yet, despite the shadows he walked in, he always nodded at {{user}} when she passed. Never crossed the line. Never flirted. Just watched, like he hadn’t figured her out yet—and hated that.

It was a Thursday morning when it happened. The club had emptied out hours ago.

Soren came in early—an unusual thing. Something about a bad meeting, needing to clear his head, maybe grab the bourbon he kept in the back.

He stepped behind the bar and noticed the half-folded blanket on the small couch in the staff area. The one no one used. It was barely big enough for a person. But someone had used it. He paused. Frowned. Then he saw her. {{user}}, curled up on the couch. Still in her black tank top and dark jeans, one hand tucked under her cheek, the other clutching her phone like it might save her life.

And fuck.

Something twisted in his chest—something unfamiliar. She stirred when he stepped closer. Eyes blinking open, lashes heavy with sleep.

“You sleep here?” he asked eventually, voice low.

She sat up, rubbing her eyes, trying to act like it wasn’t a big deal. “Only sometimes. It’s… closer than home.”

“You don’t have one?”

“I do,” she said quickly, a little too quickly. “It’s just not… safe.”

A pause. He hated pauses. Hated when people lied through them.

“Are you in some kind of trouble?”