My breath catches.
I can’t see his whole face from here, but I don’t need to. The energy rolling off him is pure threat. Controlled. Contained. The kind of presence that doesn’t just turn heads—itwarnsthem.
My voice comes out smaller than I want. “That’s the guy?”
She nods, sips. “Saw him come in solo. Didn’t order anything flashy. Didn’t try to pick up a single person. He’s not performing.”
“No,” I whisper. “Heisn’t.”
Cynna leans in again. “Which makes him either exactly what he looks like… or something worse.”
I’m rooted to the spot, pulse rising fast and ugly. “You want me to flirt with a serial killer.”
“I want you topretendto flirt with a serial killer.” Her tone softens, just a fraction. “I want you to take up space again.”
I grip the edge of the bar, trying to breathe around the noise in my head. Every instinct is flaring—panic and caution and that old familiar voice whisperingyou’re not ready.
But I’m so tired of not being ready.
Of shrinking.
Of watching life pass like a train I keep missing on purpose.
“I’m not using my real name,” I say, throat dry.
“Obviously,” Cynna replies, already digging in her clutch. She pulls out a lip tint and tosses it at me. “Pick something fun. Something that bites.”
I apply it with shaking fingers, the color blood-dark and slightly uneven. I don’t fix it. Imperfection feels honest.
“Okay,” I murmur. “Okay.”
Cynna grins, wicked and bright. “Go get murdered, sweetheart.”
I glare, and she just winks.
I turn.
I walk.
Sort of.
It’s more like threading a needle in a windstorm. My legs don’t feel like mine, and the music is suddenly louder, more chaotic. Every step toward him is a battle against the pulse screaming behind my eyes. I’m not breathing right. I’m not thinking right.
And still?—
Still I move.
The world narrows to him.
To that unbothered shape at the bar. That weight of presence. That violence curled beneath stillness.
He doesn’t look at me.
Not yet.
I don’t speak.
Not yet.
