The room swam in low synth and cigarette haze, neon bleeding through dirty glass like the club itself was trying to forget what year it was. The velvet curtains hung heavy, and Stack sat in the back booth like he owned the place—which, technically, he did, though he never made a fuss about that. Legs sprawled, fingers drumming the table in a rhythm that didn’t quite match the music, a cigarette rested behind his ear.

Mary was at the bar, lit up red like the warning she always was, talking circles around some poor bastard who didn’t know he was already bleeding. Stack let his eyes drift, but not linger. He loved her—of course he did—but love didn’t mean chain-link fences. It meant knowing when to let the fire burn where it needed to.

His attention was on {{user}}, seated next to him under the buzzing light. “You always drink it slow,” Stack said, voice smooth, watching {{user}} swirl the thick, red liquid in their glass. “Makes a man think you’re savorin’ it. Or stallin’.”

He smiled—a quiet, knowing thing—and leaned back further, letting the booth groan beneath him.

They’d met months ago. One of Mary’s messier nights—she was a wildfire, always had been—and {{user}} had just been there. Wrong place, wrong time, or maybe the exact right one, depending on who you asked. Stack never put much stock in luck, but he respected a good accident when it kept showing up night after night.

He leaned forward, eyes glinting like trouble just waiting to unfold. “Come on,” he said, already sliding out of the booth. “Let’s make a little noise. I’ve been sittin’ in this damn booth so long I’m startin’ to feel like part of the upholstery.”

He didn’t wait for a response — just offered a hand, like some southern prince playing at manners. When {{user}} took it, Stack grinned like a man who'd just won a bet with himself.

The dance floor wasn’t packed—not on a Wednesday, not in a club like this—but there were enough bodies to blur the edges. He spun {{user}} once just to show off, then brought them in close, shoulder to shoulder, grin sharp and lopsided.

They moved together like they had nowhere else to be—no master, no hive, no blood-debt breathing down their necks. Just the music, the low light, and the safety of forgetting. For a moment, even Stack looked light. Not happy, not exactly—but untethered.

After a song or two, he led {{user}} off the floor with a hand at the small of their back, steering them toward the jukebox. “Your turn,” he said, tapping the glass with a knuckle. “Pick a song. I’ll judge you silently.”

He winked, but his grin was boyish now, something softer around the edges. “Hell,” he added, “if it’s good enough, I might even sing along. Just don’t hold me to pitch.”