Your gaze shifted to Sammie while he performed, your finger absentmindedly drumming on the counter as you waited for the next order. The lull between orders stretched on, but you kept your apron on like armor — half-waiting, half-hiding.

Slim sipped from his flask and smirked around the rim. “Everybody’s out there sweatin’. Ain’t no law says you gotta guard the bar like Fort Knox,” he said, before breaking into a fit of exaggerated coughing as the liquor scorched his throat. You tilted your head slightly, your lips forming a tight line, not offering sympathy.

“Ion want smoke on my ass if folk start shoutin’ ‘bout missed drinks,” you muttered, flicking a coaster across the bar.

Slim cracked one eye open, that crooked grin still hanging on. “Pretty sure Bo already up in the middle of it. And he ain't dancin’ solo.” Slim watched your face contort into a grimace. "What?" your brows furrowed, n' he hummed. The fucker. Before you realized it, you were untying your apron while heading towards the dance floor.

As you navigated through the bustling crowd, you scanned your surroundings, but found nothing. It wasn't until you glanced to your left that you spotted Bo sitting with Smoke n' them, deep in a game of poker, laughing like he owned the joint.

You sighed in exasperation, glancing back at the bar, "Go get yo man, girl," he called out with a grin.

You made your way to the table, slow and sure, letting the music guide your hips just enough to be noticed without trying. Bo didn't look up right away — too busy raking in a small pile of chips — but Smoke clocked you with a knowing smirk.

Bo finally raised his eyes, slow like molasses, his gaze crawling up your frame until it settled on your face. His grin spread with satisfaction. “Well damn,” he drawled, leaning back in his chair.

“Ain’t you supposed to be behind the bar lookin’ all responsible?” Leaning on the table, you smiled. “Slim said you was dancin’.”

Bo chuckled, low and deliberate, the kind of sound that stayed in your chest. “That man stay runnin’ his mouth.” Without taking his eyes off you, he stood, smoothing his shirt down with one hand, offering the other. “Come on then. Let’s give him somethin’ to talk about.”

The music dropped into a slow, heavy groove, and Bo pulled you close, hand steady on your waist, breath warm against your ear. “You lookin’ like trouble tonight,” he murmured.