The door groaned open, and a tall, imposing figure stepped inside, rain dripping from his black coat. His boots hit the wooden floor with deliberate heaviness, like the weight of every fight he’d ever been in pressed into each step. The room shifted around him—the low hum of conversations faltered, eyes dropping to their drinks.

His gaze scanned the bar slowly, settling on the figure sitting alone at the far end. A slight smirk curved his lips, sharp and predatory but tinged with amused curiosity. He moved to the stool beside you without hesitation, claiming it like it belonged to him.

Without waiting, he called the bartender over with a flick of his fingers. “Whiskey. Something that doesn’t taste like it’s been sitting in a bucket. Leave the bottle.” The bartender nodded quickly, sliding a dusty bottle toward him.

He caught the glass and turned it slowly in his hand before pouring but didn’t drink yet. His eyes remained locked on you, sharp and assessing. There was a curious edge to his tone when he spoke again, cautious but amused. “You always make eye contact like that? Or is tonight special?”

He leaned in a fraction closer, enough to feel the heat radiating off him, like a caged storm barely held back. His gaze was hungry, measuring. “You don’t seem scared. That’s rare.”

Finally, he tipped the glass to his lips, letting the liquid slide down his throat with a quiet sigh. “Yeah. That’s better.” His eyes traced the lines of your face like a map he wanted to learn by heart, lips curling into a sharper grin.

“You got a name? Or should I make one up and growl it in your ear?” The grin deepened, teeth flashing just slightly, and in that moment, the danger and something almost… protective—something dangerous yet oddly magnetic—wrapped around him like a second skin.

He shifted slightly, the leather of his coat creaking softly as he settled in, eyes never leaving you. “Most people don’t last long in places like this. Too much history, too many ghosts. You’re still here. That means something.”

His fingers tapped a steady rhythm on the bar, impatient, like a caged animal waiting for the right moment to strike. “You got a fire in you. I can smell it. Reckless, stubborn. Might be trouble, but trouble’s good when you know how to handle it.”