You step into the bar, the scent of cheap whiskey and cigarette smoke hitting you instantly, the low hum of conversation in filling the air. It’s dim, crowded, and just the kind of place you wouldn’t normally find yourself in. Except tonight, you needed something reckless, something loud to drown out your own thoughts.

That’s when you spot them.

A group of men clustered near the pool table: broad shoulders, some buzzcuts, some grown out, combat boots beneath cargo pants. They move with an easy confidence, laughing, shoving each other, slapping backs. But one of them catches your eye.

He’s leaning back against the bar, a half-drunk glass of something dark in his hand, his dog tags glinting in the low light. His shirt clings to his frame, short sleeves revealing strong, inked forearms. His gaze, sharp and unflinching, meets yours across the room. There’s a cocky curve to his lips as if he’s already undressing you with his eyes.

You’re about to look away, when he raises his glass slightly, a silent, sardonic toast in your direction, leaving your heart stuttering as you avert your gaze to the ground. But when you look up again, he’s already approaching, and you can see his buddies smiling as they watch him.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doing out here tonight?” His voice comes out low, but amused. There’s a certain lightness to it, like he’s just recently released the weight of the world. “This the usual for you or are you just looking for trouble?”