Selina stood behind the bar at The Rusty Anchor, wiping down the cracked counter with a rag that smelled faintly of sour whiskey. Her hands moved without thinking. It was Saturday night, not even a full day since she’d walked out of Ethan’s hospital room. The memory of his fingers twitching and the words she’d whispered to him, “I’ll figure it out,” still echoed in her mind. She hadn’t slept much. Just a few restless hours on their old lumpy couch before dragging herself back to work. The hospital bill of $13,472 sat in her gut like a weight that wouldn’t go away.

The bar was a rough place in a part of town people passed through quickly, where things always felt a little off. The air outside was thick with exhaust, and inside was no better, filled with cigarette smoke, stale beer, and desperation. The neon signs gave everything a strange glow, making the regulars look like ghosts. Men hunched over their drinks with red-rimmed eyes, mumbling to themselves or each other. Her sneakers stuck to the floor with every step, the sticky residue of spilled liquor clinging to the soles like her problems. Her apron hung crooked on her hips, sliding around like it had a mind of its own.

She kept her head down, her hair hanging in her face like a curtain. It helped block out the leers, the rude comments, the drunk laughter. That was part of the job. Twenty bucks in tips tonight barely covered anything. She didn’t let her eyes wander. Keeping to herself was the only way to get through the shift.

Her eyes still stung from the fluorescent lights in the hospital. Her back ached from trying to sleep in a chair for days. Earlier that morning, the nurses had finally told her to go home, so she had stopped at a gas station, bought coffee and nothing else, then went straight to work. Grace’s message from last night was still sitting in her pocket: “I’m coming tomorrow. We’ll fix this.” She hadn’t replied. Couldn’t. Right now, work was all she had. All she could do to keep Ethan breathing, to keep the lights on. Every step felt like wading through mud.

The sounds of the bar clinking glasses, low voices, and bursts of laughter buzzed around her, but she barely heard them anymore. Her mind had trained itself to focus only on the motion of her hands, the wet drag of the rag across the counter. She didn’t belong here, not really, not deep in her bones. But six bucks an hour and whatever tips she could gather was the best she had.

The door creaked open. Cold March air cut through the bar’s heavy warmth, and something shifted in the room. It wasn’t loud, but she felt it. The background noise dipped, voices softened. Curious, she looked, and the hair in the back of her neck prickled up.

A young man stood in the doorway. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a dark coat open over a clean white shirt that somehow still looked fresh and expensive under the dingy bar lights. His black hair was slicked back, his face all sharp angles and bone structure, like he was carved out of something hard and expensive. His eyes were cold and gray, scanning the room once before landing directly on her. She felt that look in her bones. Not the usual bar creep or drunk loser. This one walked with a kind of quiet power. He didn’t fit here. Everything about him felt like danger or money, maybe both.

Selina looked away quickly, scrubbing a spot on the counter that didn’t need cleaning. He looked like trouble, and trouble was the last thing she needed in her life right now.

The man walked to the end of the bar and sat down, apart from the regulars. She felt his gaze even though her eyes were fixed on the counter in front of her. Joey, the other bartender, nudged her with a bony shoulder. He had a cigarette hanging from his lips like always.

“New guy’s yours, kid,” he said in a low voice. “I’m slammed.”

Selina’s mouth went dry. She gave a short nod. She didn’t want to go over there. Not now. Not with her nerves already shot and her brain still stuck in the hospital room. But Joey had already turned away to pour another draft.

Her hands fidgeted with her apron, trying to smooth it out even though it didn’t help. She forced her legs to move, dragging her feet toward the stranger. Her shoulders sagged with the weight of the day. Every step was too much. Every sound around her grated on her nerves.

When she reached him, she didn’t look up. Her voice was low and tired when she spoke.

“What do you want?”

She kept her eyes on the floor, wringing the damp rag in her hands like it could hold her together. He didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched out until she finally looked up, just for a second.

His eyes locked on hers. Steady. Unblinking. Piercing right through her like he could read her every thought. She quickly looked away again, swallowing the tight knot rising in her throat. Her cheeks flushed hot, though she didn’t know why.

“Whiskey,” he said finally. “Neat.”

His voice was smooth but sharp underneath, like a velvet rope hiding a blade.

She nodded fast, too fast, and turned to grab the bottle. Her hands were clumsy, the liquid spilling a little over the rim as she poured. She slid the glass to him, careful not to let their fingers touch, and stepped back, clutching the rag again like it was her only weapon. He didn’t drink. Just watched her. His stillness was unsettling, like a predator waiting for something.

Everything around her faded. The noise, the lights, even the smell of the bar disappeared, swallowed by the weight of his stare. She felt like she was being peeled apart without a word. She wanted to disappear behind the bar and not come back out. But something about his eyes wouldn’t let her look away for long.

“You’re new,” he said. It wasn’t really a question, more like a quiet observation.

She let out a soft breath. Her voice came out thin and rough.

“Been here a while,” she replied.

Her words barely carried over the country song now playing through the old speakers, something about broken hearts and broken promises.

He tilted his head, just slightly, and something in her chest tensed, like he’d seen through her. Then the moment broke.

A regular at the far end slammed his glass down, shouting for another round. Selina jumped, startled, and gave a hurried, “Gotta go,” before turning away and rushing to the tap.

She poured the beer too fast. Foam spilled over. She glanced back at the stranger. He still hadn’t touched his drink. He was still watching her. His expression hadn’t changed, but something in it looked like a smirk now, like he knew something she didn’t.

She turned away again, grabbing bottles and pretending to clean them, trying to calm her nerves. Her head spun. Who was he? Some rich guy who stared at people for sport? Then it hit her. The face, the suit, the presence. She’d seen him on screens. Interviews. Headlines.

The Blackwoods.

He looked just like them. Sleek suits and city towers. He didn’t belong here. Not in a dive like this. Not among sticky floors and tired girls like her. Grace had always been saying things about his family. That they were powerful and cruel, and now one of them was here?

When she looked again, he was standing. A hundred-dollar bill slid across the counter, crisp and out of place in this world of crumpled ones and spare change. He turned and walked to the door, his coat moving behind him like part of the act. Cold air rushed in as he left, and just like that, he was gone.

Selina stared at the bill for a moment before picking it up with trembling fingers. The paper felt slick and unreal. She shoved it into her apron pocket and leaned on the counter, breathing slowly. It was more than she made in tips all week. Enough to buy Ethan another day. That should have been all that mattered.

But she couldn’t stop thinking about his voice. His stare. The way he had looked at her like she was more than just tired and poor and breaking apart. She didn’t know what that look meant. And she didn’t have time to figure it out.

Not when Ethan needed her to fight.

Not when just standing here already felt like drowning.