The rush died around eleven.

People started trickling out in clumps — some buzzed and laughing, their voices trailing out into the night, others dragging their feet like the workweek had physically pinned them down. Chairs scraped against the floor as they were pushed back, coats were shrugged on with weary sighs, and one old regular tapped the rim of his glass twice before finally standing, as if marking the end of a ritual, like the workweek had physically pinned them down. A few regulars stayed glued to their corner spots, nursing drinks like they'd forgotten how to go home. The hum of conversation dropped to a low murmur, blending with the jukebox's soft buzz and the occasional clink of a glass being set down too hard. Outside, a breeze rattled the windows, carrying the scent of rain-soaked pavement and fried onions into the last breaths of the night.

Sabrina gave me the look — the one that said start herding them out, so I did.

"Last call," I called out, slapping a towel over my shoulder. "If you're hoping the whiskey fairy's gonna pay your tab, tonight's not your night."

A few laughs. Some groans. The usual shuffle of folks finishing up and pretending they weren't sad to leave.

I worked my way down the bar, wiping up rings, collecting glasses, ignoring the ache starting to creep into my shoulders. My hands moved on autopilot, cloth sweeping the wood with practiced ease. I didn't mind the long nights. Hell, I liked them. Gave me something to do, somewhere to be. People to take care of.

But even as the place emptied out, I couldn't shake the feeling I was being watched. A shiver crept up the back of my neck, and my shoulders tensed instinctively, like my body sensed something before my brain could catch up.

Not in a bad way — not like creeps at the bar or drunk guys with boundary issues. No, this was different. Sharper. Heavier. Like gravity decided to lean a little harder on one spot.

My eyes flicked toward the far end of the bar.

They were still there.

The two men Sabrina had told me about earlier — her husband and his boss. Regulars. Pack gym guys. Whatever that meant.

The younger one — Grayson, I think — had been relaxed the whole night, cracking jokes, sipping slow. But the other one? The quiet one?

Yeah. Him.

He hadn't said more than two words since he sat down. Barely even looked at me, but somehow I still felt it — like a low current under my skin. Every time I moved past him, every time I got too close, something in me pulled tight. Like static before a storm.

He wasn't staring, exactly. But I felt him.

And worse — I noticed him. Every time.

Brown hair, tied back. Trimmed beard. Broad shoulders in a hoodie that looked one size too small because it probably was. He looked like the kind of guy who never had to raise his voice to get a room to listen. Or to make someone back the hell off.

Gorgeous, yeah. In a punch-you-first-ask-later kind of way. The type I usually avoided — too much weight behind the eyes, too much control. Guys like that could unravel you without even meaning to.

It was annoying.

And weird.

And—fuck, why did my chest feel tight?

I rubbed a hand over my sternum like that would fix it. It didn't.

Sabrina popped her head in from the back, the door swinging with a familiar creak. "You okay to close up?" she asked, eyes scanning the room. "Grayson's staying late. I figured I'd get a head start on paperwork before I fall asleep standing."

"Yeah," I said, maybe a little too quickly. "All good. I've got it."

She paused. Studied me with that too-perceptive gaze of hers. "You sure?"

I gave her a smile. "Swear. Go before your apron becomes a second skin."

She rolled her eyes and disappeared with a wave, leaving behind the faint scent of whatever cookies she'd been baking earlier — buttery, warm, with a hint of cinnamon that lingered like a memory in the air.

I turned back to the two men, bracing myself.

Time to see if they were hanging around just to be polite... or if something else was going on.

"Need anything else?" I asked as I walked over, grabbing their empty glasses. My tone was casual, but I felt something in my voice hitch when I looked at the quiet one directly. "Or just delaying the inevitable stumble home?"

The quiet one didn't answer. His eyes flicked to me, just once, and then he looked away—like I was a problem he was trying very hard not to solve.

Okay, then.

The husband cleared his throat and gave me a grin that looked just a little too knowing. "Nah, we're good," he said easily. "Just letting the place wind down before we head out."

I nodded and started stacking the glasses, but the weight of the silence pressed down again. It wasn't awkward — not exactly. Just... tight. Like the air had shifted.

And then he looked at me again.

Mike.

Yeah, I'd caught his name earlier, whispered between a regular and Sabrina. Alpha, they'd said, like it meant something heavy. Like he wasn't just a guy — he was the guy.

Our eyes met — just for a second. Something in my chest tugged. Hard. It felt like catching your breath wrong. Like stepping off a curb you didn't know was there. Something electric curled behind my ribs and pushed.

And before I could think better of it, my mouth moved on its own. "You always this talkative, or am I just that intimidating?"

Grayson's head snapped toward me in surprise.

Mike blinked.

Shit.

Where the hell had that come from?

I didn't flirt with dudes like him — tall, silent, broody. Okay, I noticed them, but I didn't poke them. Not unless I wanted trouble.

But something in me wanted to poke him. To push him.

His eyes narrowed just slightly. Not angry. Just... assessing. Like I was something he hadn't expected to need to categorize.

Grayson choked back a laugh and covered it with a fake cough. "He's more of a 'speak when necessary' kind of guy," he said, clearly enjoying every second of this. "Don't take it personally."

I shrugged, still watching Mike — watching the way his jaw ticked just slightly.

"Oh, I'm not," I said with a slow grin. "Some people just need the right motivation."

Mike stood up suddenly, the scrape of his stool louder than it needed to be. My pulse kicked.

He didn't say a word — just reached for his hoodie, nodded once to Grayson, then turned and headed for the door.

"Night," Grayson said cheerfully, finishing his drink.

I stood there, towel forgotten in my hand, heart racing like I'd been in a fight. My breath caught in my throat, and my stomach flipped like I'd missed a step on a staircase — fast, jarring, and impossible to ignore.

The door closed behind him.

And I was left staring at the space he'd just been, wondering what the hell was wrong with me.