You’d heard all about the “new sheriff.” The one who showed up out of nowhere, no history, no roots: but a temper like a live wire and a reputation that spread faster than truth ever could in Banshee. Some people called him a hero. Most just called him dangerous. You hadn’t decided yet. But that night at Sugar’s bar, you got close. It was late, just past midnight, and you were nursing the last of your bourbon when the front door creaked open. He moved through the room like it belonged to him. Dark shirt clinging to a lean frame, bruised knuckles still raw from something you knew wasn’t on paper. He didn’t walk like a cop. He walked like a man who’d spent too much time on the wrong side of a prison fence and never forgot it. You forced yourself to look away, to sip your drink and not care. But then he sat beside you. “Don’t recall seeing you here before,” he said, voice low and rough like gravel and secrets.

“Maybe I wasn’t worth noticing,” you replied.

He smirked. “That’s not the problem.”

You turned to him slowly. “Then what is the problem, Sheriff?” He leaned in, not enough to touch, just enough to heat the air between your skin.

“You’ve got eyes like someone who’s trying to disappear.” You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your throat had tightened just enough to betray you, and you hated that he noticed. But he didn’t press, and just let the silence crackle. Then some asshole across the bar barked a slurred insult, directed at you. Something crude. Loud enough for everyone to hear. The kind of comment you’d grown used to surviving in places like this. You didn’t flinch. You’d learned not to, but you glare when the man grabbed at your wrist. Mad that you had turned him down a night before. But Lucas Hood stood up. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t raise his voice. He just grabbed the guy by the collar, and slammed him face-first into the bar. You stood up, stunned. He turned, blood on his hands, voice calm. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you said. “But Jesus-”

“He ever touch you, aside from today?”

“No.”

“Then I showed restraint.” He took his drink and head out the doors. You followed him outside without thinking. Maybe it was adrenaline. Maybe it was the way he lit a cigarette with blood still drying on his knuckles, like he was waiting for something worse to happen. Maybe it was the way he didn’t look at you until you spoke.

“You always handle things like that?”

He exhaled, smoke curling from his lips. “Only when I’m feeling polite.”

You stepped in close. “What about when you’re not?” He looked at you then. His gaze dropped to your mouth. Traveled the curve of your neck. Landed on your collarbone, where your shirt was just slightly off-center. You weren’t wearing anything seductive. But somehow, under his eyes, you felt naked.

“Then I usually break something I can’t fix,” he said.

You swallowed hard. “And what do you think I am?” He didn’t answer. He just stared at you like you were a loaded gun with no safety. Then, slowly, he reached out and brushed his fingers against your wrist. Just a touch. But you felt it.

“I don’t know what you are yet,” he said quietly. “But you’re not walking away clean.” Neither of you moved. The space between your mouths grew smaller by the second. Electricity hummed between your bones. You wanted him. God help you, you wanted to see what he’d do if you let him snap. But then he stepped back. “No,” he muttered. “Not tonight.”

“Why not?” He looked at you like you were a choice he’d regret either way.

“Because I don’t do soft. And you-” he shook his head, “you feel like trouble I’d never walk away from.”