Except…
That’s not true.
Because I made one.
Two years ago I enlisted to volunteer in medical relief. I did it quietly, secretly, half-convinced they’d laugh at my application and bin it on sight.
But they didn’t.
And then the letter came.
And suddenly I could be gone in weeks.
No more heels.
No more tips.
No more men who look at me like I’m something they’ve earned the right to touch.
No more crawling into bed at 3 a.m. smelling like whiskey and regret.
I could be free.
So why does every cell in my body still feel tied to him?
Why do I still feel like I’m waiting for a ghost to walk through that door?
I don’t notice the man who sits beside me at first.
Not until he’s too close.
Too casual.
Too smooth.
He has the kind of presence women glance at twice — not because he demands attention, but because it rolls off him likesmoke and silk and something sinfully earned. Like charm was built into his bones and danger was tattooed into his grin.
And that grin…
It’s slow, crooked, amused — the kind of grin that makes your knees tilt inward and your mind wander toward all the wrong, reckless places.
Dark hair, mussed in a way that says he shouldn’t be trusted.
Olive skin, glowing under the lights as if richer suns have kissed him.
Eyes so green they almost glow — toxic under the club’s red haze, like absinthe poured over envy and temptation.
He leans on the bar next to me like he’s done it a hundred times.
Like I’ve been waiting here for him without realising it.
“Mind if I sit?” he asks, already halfway into the stool.
I give him a once-over that says don’t push your luck but also I’m too tired to move.
He’s tall. Athletic. Broad in a way that suggests he could throw a punch and look good doing it. Black jeans. Dark fitted shirt rolled up to the elbows. Tattoos winding down one arm like whispered warnings I don’t want to hear.
“You just did,” I say, raising a brow.
