To consume.
When she slipped the receipt into her pocket, his pulse quickened.
That was all he needed.
The knowledge that she was holding onto it.
Holding onto him.
He leaned back, the shadows wrapping around him.
The receipt was nothing.
A whisper in the noise.
A flicker of recognition.
But now, she’d remember.
Now, she’d wonder.
And when the time came?—
When the fire finally caught?—
She would understand:
She wasn’t just his focus.
She was already his.
?
The club had settled into its late-night rhythm, conversation softening into a distant murmur that wove through the quiet clink of glassware.
Arden braced an elbow against the bar, her fingers trailing absently toward the folded receipt tucked in her pocket.
Her name—etched in rushed, uneven strokes—lingered in her mind like something half-forgotten but heavy, a shadow refusing to let go.
A sudden clink of glass pulled her back.
She glanced up.
Gideon.
Lingering at the bar’s edge.
The storm in his eyes sparked a tremor in her chest.
Gideon’s lips curved, slight and unreadable. Not quite a smile. Not quite neutral. But enough to unsteady her.
“Didn’t think you’d still be here.”
Her tone was practiced. Steady. But tension hummed underneath.
“I didn’t realize you were watching.” His voice was low, smooth, but edged with something quieter. He gently swirled the bourbon in his glass.
She arched a brow. “Hard not to notice the guy nursing the same drink for an hour.”
