The club was alive with energy, the dim glow of the neon lights casting warm hues across the room as music pulsed through the air. Ron stood behind the bar, rolling up the sleeves of his button-down as he wiped down a few glasses. It was just another night at The Burrow, the little burlesque club tucked away in the city, but his eyes kept flicking toward the stage—toward you.

You were the newest performer, and bloody hell, you were impossible to ignore. From the moment you stepped into the club, you owned the stage, moving with a confidence that had the entire room wrapped around your finger. Ron had seen it a dozen times now, but it never got any easier to pretend he wasn’t utterly mesmerized.

“Oi, you’re gonna break that glass if you keep starin’ like that,” Seamus teased from beside him, clapping a hand on Ron’s shoulder.

Ron huffed, setting the glass down with a little too much force. “I’m not starin’. I’m just—” He stole another glance as you twirled, your eyes catching his for the briefest second. His stomach flipped. “—makin’ sure she doesn’t fall off the bloody stage.”

Seamus snorted. “Right. ‘Cause that’s your job, yeah?”

Ron ignored him, grabbing a bottle to pour a drink for a waiting customer. He wasn’t gonna do anything about it. Wasn’t gonna say anything. You were a performer, the star of the show. And he? He was just the bartender.

But then, as your song ended and the crowd erupted into applause, you stepped off the stage and made a beeline for the bar. For him.

Ron swallowed hard. Yeah, he was in trouble.