The bar is loud, lit by flickering neon and the thrum of a jukebox that hasn’t worked right in years. It’s the kind of place that smells like spilled whiskey and regret, where the regulars keep to themselves and newcomers are clocked the second they walk through the door.

That’s why Rocco notices you.

Not just because you’re new—but because you walk in like you don’t belong here and don’t care. And maybe it’s the heat, or the way the sweat clings to your collarbone, but when you lean against the bar, arms crossed beneath your chest, it takes everything in him not to stare.

Too late.

His jaw tenses. His beer goes untouched. His eyes drag slowly down from your lips to the swell of your breasts pressing against your shirt, shameless, hungry. He’s not even trying to hide it.

You catch him. Of course you do.

“See something you like?” you ask, one brow cocked.

He smirks—but it’s not playful. It’s low, dangerous, and tinged with something darker. “Wouldn’t be starin’ if I didn’t,” he mutters, voice rough like gravel, eyes still fixed on you.

You expect him to come over. He doesn’t.

Rocco stays where he is, watching, testing. He wants to see what you’ll do. Whether you’ll come to him, or make him chase. Either way, it’s already too late.

He’s interested. And when Rocco wants something… he gets it.