I’m perched on the far end of the bar with my laptopopen, earbuds in my ear, pretending to focus on my edits but mostly… watching him.
Okay, definitely watching him.
He’s not doing anything special, but he looks unfairly good while doing it.
There’s something about the way he moves, like he’s unaware of the way people’s eyes follow him.
Evening light reflects in his hair, turning the dark brown into shimmers of caramel hues woven in.
Every time he wipes the counter, the muscles in his forearm flex, ink shifting beneath his skin.
Focus, Layla. Edit the damn video.
I try, I really do. I replay the clips I filmed last week—snippets of laughter, clinking glasses, neon signs buzzing in the background—trying to find the right transition point.
Snipping the audio, I adjust the color balance and zoom in on a shot of the mechanical bull in motion.
But then I remember I have footage of him.
“Hey,” I call, waving him over. “Come look at this.”
He looks up with a raised brow. “What is it?”
“Footage from the bar,” I say, turning the laptop toward him. “I have some good stuff, come looky.”
He wipes his hands on a rag and steps closer as he leans over the counter. The light from the screen hits his face, and I watch the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, his perfectly trim mustache, and the little crease between his brows as he squints.
Almost absently, he reaches up and readjusts his glasses, pushing them higher on his nose.
And all my self-worth is in the toilet, because holy shit.
It’s such a small thing, pretty stupid—just a guy fixing his glasses—but something about it makes my body feelwarm, a rush of heat making its way to my core, my pulse quickening from a straightforward action.
I instinctively clench my thighs together.
Jesus, Layla, relax.
His flannel sleeves are rolled up even higher now, and my eyes trace over every small detail.
The veins on his hands, the intricate muscles that naturally flex as he grips the bar counter, and don’t even get me started on his forearm muscles.
My brain checks out, gone, vanished, evaporated.
He leans in closer to the screen, brows furrowed. “This from last week?
“Mm-hmm,” I manage, but my voice comes out a little strangled.
He studies the footage, the corners of his mouth tugging faintly upward. “Looks good. You caught the light real nice here.”
I nod, but I’m no longer looking at the screen.
Instead, I’m watching him; the way his glasses slide down again, the way he chews the inside of his cheek when he’s thinking, the faint scar along his jawline, and the tiny flecks of blue that center his pupil.
He feels me staring. I can tell the moment he does.
His shoulders tense up, the relaxed focus on his face fading as his eyes dart anywhere else but me. His hand drops from the counter, and he takes a subtle half-step back, like he suddenly wants to fade into the background again.
The subtle movement knocks something loose in my chest; frustration, empathy, guilt, I can’t tell which.
