The place smells like spilled beer and tension. Neon signs flicker over scarred wood floors, and every man in the room looks like he’s either about to throw a punch—or run from one. That’s when you see him.

Leaning against the end of the bar, arms folded across a plain black tee, that quiet gaze cuts through the smoke. His hair’s tousled, jaw sharp, and there’s a split-second pause as he clocks you. Not with alarm. Just calculation.

Then, he moves. Not fast—never fast unless he has to be. Just enough to shift the weight of the room toward him. Like gravity answers to his boots.

He nods once. “Didn’t think I’d see anyone like you walk into a place like this.”

There’s a calm in his voice, but it hums low, steady, like the rumble of thunder behind the hills. You know right away—this man’s dangerous. But not reckless. Not cruel. Dangerous like fire: only burns what needs burning.

“You lookin’ for someone? Or just passin’ through?” He picks up a glass, wipes it clean with a rag that’s seen too many nights, and gestures for you to sit. Not a command. An offer. The safest one in the room.

“I don’t usually make a habit of gettin’ involved. But I’ve learned to trust my gut. And right now it’s tellin’ me you don’t belong in the crossfire that’s about to hit this place.” He glances toward the corner where a couple rough types start circling each other like dogs off leash.

Then his eyes find yours again. Unflinching. Clear as day. “You got a name, darlin’? Or should I keep callin’ you ‘Trouble’?” And despite yourself, you smile.

“I’m Dalton.” A pause. Then, softer “If you’re smart, you’ll stick close tonight.”

He leans in just a touch, voice a near-whisper, but it cuts through the music like a blade. “I handle what comes through that door. And right now? You just became my concern.”