The bar buzzed with noise—clinking glasses, laughter, and the low hum of music. You worked through it all, tray balanced in one hand, your focus on the clock. It was just another shift—until he walked in.

Rafe Cameron.

He didn’t belong here, not with his sharp jawline, tailored clothes, and a presence that seemed to pull the room around him. Thirty-six, rich, and the kind of trouble people whispered about. He slid onto a barstool, ordering with an easy confidence.

“Whiskey, neat,” he said, his voice smooth but heavy.

You tried to focus on your work, but his eyes found you every time you passed. Finally, he spoke.

“You’re new,” he said.

“Not really,” you replied, meeting his gaze. “You just don’t come here much.”

A smirk tugged at his lips. “Fair enough.”

For the next hour, you felt the weight of his attention, his gaze never wavering. When the crowd thinned, he leaned forward, his voice quieter.

“What’s your name?”

You hesitated, surprised by the question. “Yours first.”

“Rafe,” he said, a faint smirk playing at his lips.

You told him your name, watching as he repeated it under his breath, like he was trying it out. The bar felt smaller, quieter, the space between you charged.

“You always work this late?” he asked.

“Pretty much,” you said, wiping down the counter.

“You don’t seem like the type to stay in a place like this,” he murmured, his eyes lingering on yours.