The club was all smoke and strobe lights, laughter spilling from every dark corner. {{user}} liked it that way. But mostly, she liked him. Simon Riley. He worked the bar on Thursdays and Fridays, a quiet constant in a sea of chaos. Tattoos lined his arms, black ink curling under rolled sleeves. He wasn’t one for small talk. Simon’s version of flirting was subtle. A raised brow when she ordered something ridiculous. A smirk when she leaned too close. The way his eyes lingered, just long enough to make her wonder if she was imagining it.

{{user}} made it a game. Every time she came back, trying to get him to break. To play back. “Make it strong tonight, bartender,” she teased one evening, sliding her card across the counter. “Long week.” He caught the card, thumb brushing hers for half a second too long. “That’s what you said last week.” “Maybe I like my routine.” He poured whiskey into her glass and leaned forward. “You like pushin’ your luck.” Her smile curved slow. “And you like letting me.” His lips twitched, the closest thing to a grin she ever got. Then one night, everything tilted. {{user}} was leaving late, heels in one hand, when she saw him outside near the alley. His bike gleamed under the streetlight and there she was, a girl. Laughing as Simon handed her a helmet. She slipped it on, climbed onto the bike behind him. {{user}} just stood there, heart in her throat, the cool air biting harder than it should’ve. She didn’t go back after that. For a week, she found other distractions.

By Saturday, her friends dragged her out anyway. “You’ve been weird all week,” Elena said, grabbing her hand as they pushed through a crowd at a bar. “You’re coming out. You’re drinking. You’re dancing.” {{user}} barely argued. She downed one drink, then another. Tried to drown the memory of Simon’s smirk under the taste of tequila. At some point, the lights blurred, and the room spun just enough to make her laugh. She wasn’t sure when she ended up outside but she heard her friends murmuring, phones out. “She’s gone, like, gone,” someone said. “Should we call an Uber?” “No, she’ll puke in it.” “What about that guy? The bartender she’s always talking about?” And before {{user}} could protest, someone said, “Yeah, call him.”

When she opened her eyes again, the first thing she saw was leather. Then boots. Then the low rumble of a familiar voice. “Easy, sweetheart. Got you.” Her head tilted back and there he was. Simon. He smelled like smoke, his jacket warm under her cheek as he steadied her against him. “What are you doin’ here?” she slurred. “Your friends called,” he said simply. “Said you’d had a bit too much fun.” {{user}} squinted at him, words tangled in her throat. “Why you?”

“Guess I’m on your emergency contact list now.” She frowned, trying to focus on his face, the soft crease between his brows, the concern hidden under that usual calm. Then, before she could stop herself, she blurted. “Shouldn’t you be with your girlfriend or whatever?” That made him freeze. “My what?” “Your girlfriend,” she said again, tone sharp despite her slur. “The blonde. On your bike. Saw you. Last week.” Simon’s mouth parted like he didn’t know whether to laugh or swear. “Christ, {{user}}.”

“What?” He sighed, that deep, frustrated kind of sigh that came from someone holding back a smile. “That was my sister.” Her brows knitted together. “You’re lying.” “Why the fuck would I lie about that?” His tone was rough but gentle, his hand steady at her back. “She was visiting. Needed a ride home.” {{user}} blinked at him, words catching somewhere between mortification and relief. “Oh.” “Oh,” he repeated, shaking his head. “You’ve been ignorin’ me ‘cause of that?” She mumbled something incoherent, which only made him smirk. “Didn’t know you were keepin’ tabs on me, sweetheart.” “I wasn’t,” she muttered. “I just saw.” “Mm.” He tilted his head. “Jealous, were you?” Her mouth opened, then closed. “You wish.” He laughed and the sound made her chest ache. “C’mon,” he said, sliding his arm around her waist. “Let’s get you outta here before you fall on your ass.”