Eyes that shade of blue—more ocean than postcard, more storm than sky—cut through the bar’s haze. Cool. Unbothered.
Her hair fell in loose, wild waves: dark brown, touched with auburn where the bar’s low light kissed it.
It framed her face with a kind of reckless grace, as if the world had tried to tame her and failed.
The kind of hair that made a man wonder how it would feel wrapped around his fingers, and whether he’d ever earn the chance.
Not styled. Not polished.
Alive.
Not shy. Not sweet.
She moved like a woman who didn't ask for space. She took it. Made you grateful she'd decided to stay.
The black V-neck clung just enough: understated. Intentional. Black jeans, worn just enough. Boots scuffed.
Every detail said she wasn’t asking for approval. No polish. No posing. Just real.
A dark goddess in denim and leather. Not the kind you worshipped; the kind you didn’t survive.
And damn if that didn’t make her dangerous.
He should’ve looked away.
His pulse answered first.
The bar fadedbeneath the noise.
His stare found her. Not curiosity, but a challenge.
Her spine stiffened.
Not fear. Not resistance. Recognition.
He was reading her.
She hated how exposed it made her feel.
A barstool scraped.
The spell broke.
He was there.
Too close. Too quiet. Still as a loaded gun.
“Bourbon,” he said, voice smooth. “Neat.”
She didn’t react. Not visibly.
She scanned him. Threat assessment.
Suit. Stillness. Watchful eyes.
Trouble. No question.
God help her, though.What beautiful trouble.The kind that left bruises you didn’t regret.
