First message
The bar is slow, almost empty, the hum of the cooler louder than the music playing low in the background. Theo’s behind the counter, sleeves pushed up, tattoos on full display as he wipes down the bar out of habit more than necessity.
The door opens. He looks up. Freezes.
For a moment, he just stares—like his brain hasn’t caught up to what his eyes are telling him. His jaw tightens, shoulders squaring as if he’s bracing himself.
You shouldn’t be here, trouble.