He walks away.
I stand there for a second, watching him go, making sure he keeps moving. Then I turn.
She's looking at me.
Up close, her eyes are dark, brown with a warmth behind them, like firelight through amber glass. She’s not scared. That’s the first thing I register. Most people, after watching me shut down aman twice their weight, get a little pale. She looks steady. Looks almost… like she’s deciding something about me.
"Thank you," she says. Clear voice. No tremor in it.
I nod.
She tilts her head. "I had it handled, you know."
"I know."
A beat of silence. The jukebox shifts to a slower song.
"But I appreciate it anyway." That smile again. The one that's going to be a problem. "I'm Harper."
I don't give her my name. Not yet. I pick up her drink from where she set it down on the bar and put it back in front of her. Then I look at her long enough to say what I need to say.
"You shouldn't come here alone."
She raises an eyebrow. Doesn't argue. Doesn't fold either. Just holds my gaze with that steady, dark-amber look of hers and says, "Noted."
Then she picks up her drink and takes a sip like the conversation is done on her terms, not mine.
I go back to my stool.
Gear slides up beside me the second I sit down. He's smirking, I can tell without looking, because Gear's default setting is smirking and I've known him long enough to hear it.
I wrap both hands around my whiskey glass and stare at the bar top. Behind me, I hear her laugh at something Tommy says. It's a real laugh. Unguarded. The kind that comes from someone who's got nothing to prove.
I don't look back.
But I know exactly where she's standing. I track her movement through the room the same way I used to track movement in a village square overseas, without appearing to, without making it obvious, just knowing.
She stays for exactly one drink. Says a few words to Tommy, pulls on her jacket, heads for the door. When she passes me, she doesn't slow down. Doesn't look over. But the way she passes, deliberate, unhurried, tells me she knows I'm watching.
The door drags shut behind her.
The bar sounds slightly less interesting than it did twenty minutes ago.
Blaze leans over again. "You're going to see her again."
"Go to hell, Blaze."
He laughs into his beer.
I finish my whiskey and don't answer, because we both know he's right.
Chapter 3 – Harper
I wake up thinking about a scar. Not in a dramatic way—just there, in that half-conscious space before morning fully arrives, last night replaying without permission. The bar. A hand on my wrist. And then that shadow, that low, even voice that made Cal dissolve like sugar in hot water.
I lie there staring at the ceiling of my new bedroom, still empty except for white plaster and a light fixture shaped like a flower, and I think about that scar. Jaw to cheekbone, old, clean, carrying a story no one’s telling.
And I think about the way he looked at me. Like a verdict already decided.
