She nods, the name landing where she expected. "Lena," she says after the smallest pause.
It lands wrong. Too smooth. Too delayed. A lie that wants to be believed. I let it sit. For tonight, it can be true enough.
"What do you do, Knox?" Her tone suggests she narrowed it down before asking.
"Security," I say. The easiest version of the truth.
"Ex-military security," she says, more statement than question.
Close enough. That's what people called it when they needed a shape for something that never made the books.
"Something like that."
She files the non-answer away. Fast. Dangerously fast.
Her gaze travels up my arm, across my chest, to my mouth. Every nerve she passes over pulls taut. Heat climbs the back of my neck.
I lean in a fraction, voice low. "Don't look at me like that unless you want me to do something about it."
She stills. Doesn't look away.
Her stare locks on mine. Pupils blown. Breath caught between her teeth. Half bracing, half reaching.
"What?" she asks softly. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"No." My voice comes out rougher than I meant. "Trying to decide if you're trouble."
Her focus drags down my chest. Takes its time. When it lifts, the color's darker.
"You strike me as a man who doesn't mind trouble."
A breath escapes me, almost a laugh. "Depends on the kind."
"What kind am I?" she asks, tapping the rim of her glass with her fingernail. The sound is faint, but it carries a dare.
"The kind that keeps a man up at night," I say. "Whether he touches you or not."
That earns me another almost-smile. This one lasts a heartbeat longer. Sharp and bruised and entirely too tempting.
"You don't scare easily, do you?"
"Not by you," I say. "You're the one shaking."
She doesn't deny it.
She reaches into her sweater pocket and fishes out a couple of folded bills. Her knuckles whiten around the fold before she smooths them flat. The motion knocks a hotel keycard sleeve loose behind the cash. It slips forward, showing me the logo and the neat, dark ink: 1512–Floor 15.
She doesn't catch me noticing.
The cash slides toward the bartender. "Keep the change."
Then she stands, sliding off her stool. At the edge of the bar, she turns back. Her chin tips up, cutting the rest of the room out of the frame. My pulse kicks once, hard.
One sharp click. She taps the keycard sleeve on the bar. Her gaze holds mine, heavy and unspoken, before she turns and walks toward the elevators.
Shoulders squared. Spine straight. Her shadow long and lonely behind her.
She doesn't look back.
