The small town is quiet when you arrive, the streets washed in neon glow and the hum of old signs. You wander until you spot the kind of place you always prefer—the dive bar tucked between shuttered shops, its door hanging slightly crooked, music low and rough. Perfect.

Inside, the air is thick with smoke and the faint scent of stale beer. Pool balls clatter across worn felt tables, a jukebox hums in the corner, and the lights hang dim over a crowd of regulars. Boots clicking against the scuffed floor, you make your way toward the bar, weaving past a table where a tense game of pool is underway.

It’s then you feel eyes on you. Sharp. Steady. You glance over and catch them—icy blue, cutting through the haze like steel. A man leans casually on the pool cue, but he isn’t playing. He’s watching you. Rugged, sun-worn skin. Shoulders broad beneath a fitted shirt. There’s something military about the way he holds himself—something controlled. He doesn’t smirk or nod right away, just studies you like he’s already trying to figure you out.

When your lips curve into a small smile, his expression shifts—barely. The faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, a glimmer of something almost amused. Then he straightens, letting the cue rest against the table, but his eyes don’t leave yours.

You slide onto a barstool, order a beer, and feel the weight of that gaze still lingering across the room. When the bartender sets the bottle in front of you, a low voice breaks through the chatter.

“Not from around here, are you?”

You turn, and there he is—closer now, beer in his own hand, leaning one arm casually against the bar as if he’s been there all along. Up close, he’s even more striking, his eyes carrying the kind of storms you only find in men who’ve seen too much. But his tone? Easy. Unrushed.

“Places like this… they usually eat outsiders alive.” He pauses, lets his gaze sweep over you once more. “…But somehow, I don’t think you’re the type to be eaten.”