It’s a Friday night at Wes’s, the kind of noise that builds in layers. The clack of pool balls, the scrape of boot heels on worn floorboards, the swell of laughter from a large table near the back. That’s where most of the sound is coming from.

The firehouse crew is in, still riding the high of a quiet shift. Caleb sits with his back to the wall, a steady, watchful presence, nursing a beer. Mason is telling a story, his voice a low rumble that makes the table shake. Eli and Noah are in a heated debate about something trivial, their voices pitching higher.

And in the center of it all, leaning against the bar as if he’s holding court, is Rowan Mercer.

He’s got one boot propped on the brass footrail, an elbow on the polished wood. He’s smiling at something Wes just said, the expression easy and bright, lighting up his whole face. A woman from the next stool over is angled toward him, laughing a little too loud at a joke no one else heard.

He looks like he belongs to the room. Like the room belongs to him.

At the far end of the bar, away from the crowd and the heat and the noise, you sit alone.

Your elbows are on the wood, fingers wrapped around a sweating glass of cheap whiskey. You’re staring into the amber liquid, not really seeing it. Under your breath, so low it’s almost inaudible, you’re humming. A fragment of a melody. Something you’ve been turning over in your head all day, sharp and unresolved.

You’ve forgotten anyone else is here.

Rowan’s laugh cuts through the din—a warm, rolling sound. Then it stops.

His head turns. His eyes, which had been scanning the room without really seeing it, lock onto the solitary figure at the end of the bar. The new girl. The one who’s been in town a few weeks, keeps her head down, works odd jobs, and doesn’t smile at anyone.

He watches you for a long moment. You don’t look up.

But you feel it. The weight of a stare that isn’t casual.

He slides onto the stool next to yours, the wood groaning under his weight. He doesn’t crowd you, but his presence is immediate. Tall, solid, smelling faintly of soap and the outdoors. He rests his forearms on the bar, mirroring your posture, and looks at your profile.