Yessirr

The bar hummed with low music and conversation, but Dylan barely heard it. He sat at the far end, whiskey neat in hand, his mind elsewhere. Another town, another fight, another night of trying to drink away the past.

And then she appeared.

A blonde in red.

She slid onto the stool beside him, a scent of vanilla and something darker clinging to the air between them. The dress hugged her curves like a secret meant for dim lighting, and her lips—painted the same shade as her dress—curved into something between amusement and invitation.

“You don’t look like you belong here.”

Dylan turned his head slightly, his gaze meeting hers. Green eyes, sharp and unreadable. “Neither do you.”

She smiled, tilting her glass. “Maybe I don’t. Maybe I’m just passing through.”

“Same.”

She studied him, like she was deciding something. Then, slowly, she leaned in, her voice dipping just enough to make the words feel heavier. “I don’t usually drink alone.”

Dylan exhaled through his nose, a quiet laugh. “That makes one of us.”

She smirked. “Not anymore.”

Her knee brushed his. Not an accident.

“Got a name?” he asked.

She swirled the amber liquid in her glass. “For tonight?” A small pause. “Call me Lily.”

Lies. He could tell. But he wasn’t asking for the truth.

“Lily,” he echoed, testing the name.

She set her drink down, then reached for his collar, straightening it even though it didn’t need straightening. The warmth of her fingers lingered longer than necessary. “You look like someone who carries too much weight on his shoulders,” she mused.

Dylan held her gaze. “And you look like someone who doesn’t care.”

Her lips parted slightly, another smile flickering across them. “Maybe,” she admitted. “But I do know how to make a man forget for a night.”

Another test.

She didn’t have to say the words—Let’s get out of here. They were already hanging between them.

Dylan could say no. Walk away like he always did.

Instead, he let the silence stretch before standing, tossing a few bills on the counter.

“Lead the way.”