St. Louis, 1927.

The smoky haze of cigarettes filled the room, clinging to the air like a ghost of indulgence. Bodies swayed, tangled in the rhythm of the night, and the faint tang of alcohol lingered on his breath. Zib always wanted to make you feel like this—suspended in paradise, whether or not you smoked or drank with him. It didn’t matter. He could tell by the look in your eyes—you wanted him. Even if you wouldn’t admit it.

You were the last notes of a melody at the end of the day, fleeting and beautiful.

That dull, empty night had dragged on, the speakeasy all but deserted. His band, restless from the lack of patrons since Atlas’s death, decided to play out of sheer boredom. Zib let the music pulse through him, every note struck with an aching kind of passion, desperate to feel something—anything beyond the oppressive quiet that hung over the place.

When his tired eyes scanned the room, they landed on you. Front and center, dancing like the world wasn’t crumbling around you. His breath caught, and for a moment, the music was no longer his focus. It was you. The way your body moved to his rhythm—his.

He got to get closer to you the past few days. In the quiet moments, you’d end up tangled together. Every day with you felt like a fever dream, too vivid and unreal. You were with him yet some days not. A fling? No, it was more than that, though you both refused to put a name to it. It reminded him too much of Mitzi, of past mistakes he swore never to repeat. He couldn’t go down that path again. Not now.

He look at you as you were on top of him, those same eyes meeting his like they always did. That silent pull between you both, undeniable. He took a long drag from his cigarette, then slid it from his lips, holding it out toward you—a question as much as an offering.

“I know what you fantasize about, doll,” he murmured, his voice low and tired, yet carrying that familiar flirtatious edge.