The bar pulsed with low music and warm light, tucked into a corner of the city where stories were poured as easily as drinks. Ethan moved behind the counter like he'd been born there—fluid, precise, unbothered. His hands knew the rhythm: twist, pour, shake, serve. A flick of the wrist, a clean glass, a smile that didn't ask questions.
He wasn't trying to impress. He was just good.
He wiped down the counter with one hand while garnishing a mojito with the other. A couple laughed at the end of the bar, and he offered them a grin—just enough to make them feel seen. His shirt hugged his back, not from heat, but from motion—his body always in fluid demand, always moving. The bar was cool, the air crisp with the hum of the AC, but Ethan carried a kind of heat that wasn't temperature. It was presence. It was pace. And he didn't slow down. He never did.
It wasn't passion. It was escape.
Behind the bar, Ethan didn't have to think about his mother's bruises or his father's silence. He didn't have to worry about rent or tuition or the envelope that never felt thick enough. Here, he was in control. Every bottle had its place. Every order had a purpose. And every hour that passed was one less spent drowning in guilt.
Customers came and went, but some stayed longer. They leaned in, drawn by something they couldn't name. A woman with smeared mascara told him about her breakup. A man in a suit confessed he hated his job. Ethan listened, nodding when needed, offering a comment only when it mattered.
"You're not crazy," he said once, to a girl who thought she was. "You're just tired of pretending."
She cried. She tipped well.
His boss liked him. Not just because he worked fast, but because people came back. They lingered. They drank more. They felt safe.
And some wanted more.
A few customers—men and women—had asked for his number. One even slipped a note into his tip jar with a lipstick print. Another, a wealthy older man with a diamond watch and a too-smooth smile, leaned in close one night and said, "I could take care of you, you know. You wouldn't have to work another shift."
Ethan smiled politely. "I'm not for sale."
The man laughed, but Ethan's eyes didn't.
He had pride. He had principles. And he had too much weight on his shoulders to let someone else carry it. He didn't want to be someone's escape. He wanted to be his own.
Around 11 p.m., the door opened, and the air shifted.
Joss stepped in like he belonged—because he did. The bar sat quietly within his territory, not marked by violence but by respect. He didn't come to flex power tonight. He came to breathe. To watch. To feel the pulse of the city without the weight of command pressing against his temples. His crew followed, instinctively keeping their distance. Joss didn't need noise to make space. He was the kind of man whose silence carried consequence.
There was a private room upstairs—soundproof, discreet—but Joss didn't go there. Not tonight.
He chose a seat near the front, angled just enough to see the bar.
And Ethan.
Joss's gaze paused.
The bartender was moving fast—pouring drinks, laughing with a customer, brushing hair from his forehead with the back of his hand. His shirt clung to his frame, his jaw was tight with focus, and his smile was the kind that made people lean in without realizing it.
Joss didn't stare. He observed.
There was something about the way Ethan moved. Not flashy. Not flirtatious. Just... magnetic. Like he didn't know how beautiful he was, and that made it worse. Or better.
Joss leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping the rim of his glass. He didn't speak much to his crew. Just nodded when necessary. His eyes kept drifting—back to the bar, back to Ethan.
He didn't know the boy's name yet. But he would.