You were one of the very few women who truly loved your job at the bar—not just for the pay, not just for the lights and laughter, but for the pulse of life it brought into your lungs. The clink of glasses, the rumble of music under the soles of your boots, and the wild cheers of drunken strangers were as familiar to you as your own heartbeat.

Tonight was no different. The mechanical bull whirred beneath you, jerking and spinning, but your grip was firm, thighs strong and posture flawless. Your hair whipped with each twist, sweat kissed your temples, but you only grinned wider. The crowd around you had grown thick with men—shouting bets, clapping, hooting. Your tank top clung to you, revealing just enough to tempt but never enough to give away the mystery. Your glutes flexed with every motion, and your chest bounced with every lurch of the machine. You weren’t just performing—you were alive, and they all knew it.

The old manager, Gus, leaned against the bar and watched with a toothy grin, arms crossed and eyes warm with respect. You were his goldmine, his star, and he treated you like a daughter—one who brought more business than any ad campaign ever could. He never crossed a line. “You light this place up, girl,” he always said. “Like the moon above a desert party.”

But amid the commotion, there was one man who didn’t cheer.

He stood near the wall, shrouded in shadows that pulsed beneath the neon lights. A hood covered part of his face, and his eyes—dark and still—were locked solely on you. His drink remained untouched in his hand, a bead of condensation dripping to the floor. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just watched.

He had been coming in for weeks now. Always the same stool, always the same time. He never said much, never caused trouble, but never missed a night when you were working. You hadn’t noticed—until now.

Something in the shift of the crowd, in the way your name was shouted louder than usual, made your gaze scan past the usual flurry of drunk men, and for a brief second, your eyes met his.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile. His stare held something ancient, something heavy. As if he wasn’t watching you perform, but remembering something… or waiting.

You looked away quickly, the bull throwing you off-kilter just enough to break the trance. You laughed it off with the crowd, landing on the padded mat to a roar of applause. But your skin tingled in a new way. Not from the ride—but from being seen.

Later, when you took a break and leaned over the bar for a water, Gus nudged you.

“You’ve got fans,” he joked. “One of ‘em don’t blink though. Been watchin’ you like he’s seein’ a ghost.”

You glanced to the corner again, but he was gone.

Only the untouched drink remained. And a small card under the glass, pressed down by the sweat-ring of the cup. It was blank—except for a date.

July 7th. Midnight. Rooftop.

Your heart skipped once. You hadn’t spoken to him. Never shared your name. But somehow, he knew.