The bar was buzzing with the usual post-filming energy—loud laughter, empty bottles clinking together, and the occasional dare that sounded like it should’ve been saved for the cameras. Bam had one arm draped around your shoulders, pulling you close as he leaned back against the booth, his grin plastered wide across his face.

“You realize we actually survived filming, right?” Bam said, lifting his glass high like it was a trophy. “That’s a miracle in itself.”

Across from you, Ryan chuckled, shaking his head as he took a long pull from his beer. “Barely. If Knoxville has another ‘great idea,’ I’m out. No more rockets. No more bulls. Done.” His tone was serious, but the smirk tugging at his lips gave him away.

The rest of the guys hollered and jeered from the bar, already knee-deep in shots and plotting which poor soul was about to get tricked next. You could see Johnny whispering something to Steve-O, who nearly choked on his drink from laughing too hard. That was never a good sign.

Bam pressed a quick kiss to your temple, his thumb rubbing absentminded circles on your arm. “Don’t worry, babe. Tonight? No stunts, no broken bones. Just us, celebrating.” He said it like a promise, but his eyes still glimmered with that mischievous spark you knew too well.

“Uh-huh,” you said, arching a brow. “You and ‘no stunts’ don’t belong in the same sentence.”

Ryan laughed, tipping his bottle in agreement. “She’s not wrong.”

That was about when Chris Pontius jumped onto the table shirtless, already hollering about how the “real party” was about to start.

You slid onto an open stool at the bar, flagging down the bartender with a quick wave. “Couple more rounds of beer and a shot tray for the idiots in the corner,” you called over the music, smirking when you saw Ryan and the others already chanting at Steve-O to down his drink faster. Typical.

The bartender nodded, busy pulling taps, when you felt someone slide into the space next to you—too close.

“Hey, gorgeous,” a slurred voice drawled. You turned just enough to catch the sight of a red-faced stranger, clearly a few drinks past his limit. His grin was lazy, confidence dripping in the way only alcohol could provide. “What’s a girl like you doing all alone at the bar?”

You gave him a polite but firm smile, shaking your head. “Not alone. Just grabbing drinks.”

He leaned in, ignoring the hint. “C’mon, you don’t gotta play coy with me. Lemme buy you something. Bet I can show you a better time than whatever clown you’re here with.”

Your jaw tightened—half tempted to laugh in his face, half tempted to torch his drink order with Dunn-style sarcasm. The guy didn’t seem to notice your lack of amusement, leaning an elbow on the counter, eyes trailing far too boldly over you.

And of course, that’s right about when Bam was still in the bathroom, Ryan distracted with the boys—leaving you to decide whether to shut this drunk down with words, or wait and see what kind of scene he was about to cause.