The music thrummed through the dimly lit club, vibrating through the worn wooden floors as Ron poured another round of drinks. The Greenhouse was always lively at this hour, a mix of regulars and newcomers drawn in by the allure of the stage. He should’ve been used to it by now—the dazzling lights, the sultry performances, the magnetic pull of the performers who ruled the stage.

But then there was you.

Ron caught himself watching as you moved, your voice carrying over the crowd like silk, commanding attention without even trying. He’d seen you perform dozens of times, but it never failed to knock the wind out of him. It was maddening, really, how easily you had him wrapped around your little finger without even knowing it.

He was halfway through mixing a drink when you slid up to the bar, a teasing smirk playing at your lips.

“Ronnie,” you drawled, resting an elbow against the counter. “You’ve been staring again.”

Ron nearly fumbled the bottle in his hand, ears burning as he hurried to pour your usual. “Was not,” he muttered, avoiding your gaze.

You laughed, that low, warm sound that always made his stomach twist. “Right. And I suppose you were just watching the chandelier this whole time?”

He huffed, sliding the drink toward you. “You want a drink or you just here to give me a hard time?”

You leaned in, fingers brushing his as you took the glass. “Can’t I do both?”

Bloody hell. He was in trouble.