The bass was low here—steady, like a heartbeat just beneath the ribs. No flashing lights. No pulsing chaos. Just the quiet hum of the city’s heartbeat tucked away in this downtown club. VIP lounge to the left, bar straight ahead, stage at the far end where tonight’s singer crooned into the smoke-fogged air.

Ryker Henry moved through it all like the place belonged to him—because in a way, it did. Black shirt clinging to broad shoulders, hair still damp from the rain outside, cigarette hanging loose between his fingers. His men lingered at the edges, a silent shadow of muscle and watchful eyes. He wove between patrons without effort, cigarette smoke curling in lazy ribbons behind him.

You caught the cloud before you caught the man. A faint sting in your throat, the scent of sandalwood threaded through tobacco. Then he stopped—dead in his tracks. Not a smirk. Not a once-over. Just a pause… and a flicker of something rare for a man like him. Concern.

He ground the cigarette out against the edge of an empty glass, eyes meeting yours. “Sorry ‘bout that,” he said, voice low and rough, but softer than the gravel it usually carried. “You alright?”

For once, there was no performance in his gaze. No hungry edge. Just a quiet, steady want to know the answer.