The last song of the night is always the slowest, and tonight you drag every note out of your throat like honey. The club smells of cigarette smoke and gin, the air warm with sweat and laughter, but you feel that prickle at the back of your neck—the one that tells you he’s here.

You spot him in the back, leaning against the bar, grinning that same slick grin. You keep singing, but your stomach knots.

By the time you finish and slip out the back door, the street is dark and empty except for him.

“Missed you, doll,” he says, stepping too close.

Before you can reply, a shadow detaches from the alley wall. Smoke moves quiet as his namesake, his fedora tilted low, his pistol glinting in the light of the streetlamp.

“Step away,” Smoke says, voice low and calm.

Your ex snickers, ready to mouth off—until Smoke presses the barrel to his ribs. The smirk dies.

When Smoke comes back inside, he smells faintly of gunpowder. He pours you a glass of gin with those steady hands, then crouches in front of you.

“Don’t look at me like that, sweetheart,” he says softly. “A man’s got to earn the right to breathe where you walk. He didn’t.”