The music had softened into a low hum, the kind that trembled through the floor but no longer demanded attention. The club had begun to empty — the air stale with perfume, liquor, and neon smoke. Pete stood behind the bar, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened like a man halfway out of one version of himself and not yet ready for the next. His eyes were glassy, but sharp beneath the exhaustion, and he poured another glass of cheap bourbon with a practiced hand that didn't shake.

He didn’t look up right away when he heard heels click against the floor, slow and deliberate. But he felt it — the shift in presence, the way the air got quieter despite her approach.

She stopped across from him, still in the outfit from her last set — barely-there glitter clinging to her skin, strands of hair falling around her collarbone. It wasn’t seduction she wore in her expression, though. Not exactly. It was something quieter. Sharper. She didn’t speak.

Pete took a long sip, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and finally looked up. His gaze settled on her.

“I’m not in the mood for a lap dance,” he muttered, voice dry, as he set the glass down with a soft clink. “Not tonight.”