The bar was already packed by the time Ron stepped inside, the air thick with the scent of whiskey, sweat, and cheap perfume. The neon lights overhead cast a hazy glow on the crowded room, and the bass from the jukebox vibrated in his chest. He hadn’t been in New York long—just a few weeks, barely enough time to find his footing—but something about this place had pulled him in.

Maybe it was the music. Maybe it was the way the energy crackled in the air, electric and wild. Or maybe it was you.

You were up on the bar, dancing like you owned the place, moving in time with the music, the crowd whooping and hollering as you worked them up into a frenzy. Ron leaned against the counter, arms crossed over his broad chest, tattoos peeking out from under the rolled-up sleeves of his flannel. He wasn’t much of a drinker, but he found himself ordering one anyway, just for an excuse to stay.

When you finally hopped down, sliding behind the bar with an effortless grace, you glanced up—and that’s when you saw him.

Tall. Built like a brawler. Red hair that looked like he ran his fingers through it too often. A strong jawline, dusted with scruff. Silver glinted from his ears, his nose, even the ring on his bottom lip that he caught between his teeth when he smirked.

And he was smirking now, looking right at you.

“Hell of a show,” he said, voice low and rough, thick with an accent that was all warmth and grit. “You always dance like that, or am I just lucky tonight?”