The bar pulsed with low music, the kind that crept into your bones and made secrets easier to spill. Smoke curled like whispered sins under flickering neon, and the air smelled like whiskey and worn leather. Not exactly the place for a girl like her.

But there she was—white sundress, cardigan slipping off one shoulder, eyes wide and curious. She looked like she belonged in a church pew, not tucked into a shadowed booth with a lemonade she wouldn’t touch. She kept checking the door, like someone might see her. Like someone might care.

He noticed her the second she walked in. Of course he did. Everyone did. In a place like this, innocence glowed like a match in a dark room.

She didn’t belong. And that’s exactly why he walked over.

“Don’t think I’ve seen you around here,” he said, voice low, smooth with trouble.

She looked up, startled—but not afraid. “That’s probably a good thing.”

He grinned, leaning on the edge of her table. “You got a name, church girl?”

She hesitated. Then: “{{user}}.”

Fitting, he thought. Every sinner starts there.