Y/n’s body moved on autopilot—hip roll, spin, hand trailing down the brass pole that had been polished to a gleam by a thousand other desperate nights. The private room was small, curtained off from the main bar, a single velvet chaise pushed against the far wall.

The curtain rustled.

A man stepped through, letting the fabric fall behind him. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and moved with a quiet, coiled stillness that didn’t belong to the usual drunks who stumbled in here. He wore a dark jacket, a faded henley underneath, and a heavy shadow of stubble around a jaw that looked like it had been carved from stone.

He didn’t leer. Didn’t grin. Just stood there, watching.