(Alex POV)
Ryan bought the place on impulse.
That's how he explains it, anyway, leaning back against a high table with a drink in hand, surveying the pub like a man admiring a gamble that paid off faster than expected. Friday night crowds press in from every direction, bodies packed close, music loud enough to blur conversations into something indistinct and physical.
"Location," he says, lifting his glass slightly. "Foot traffic. Character. This place prints money."
I scan the room automatically. Exits. Sightlines. The way the bar funnels people toward the dance floor and keeps them there longer than they intended.
"You didn't make a mistake," I say.
Ryan grins. "Damn right I didn't."
A few guys from his circle laugh, clinking glasses, already comfortable here. This is Ryan's world — instinct, confidence, money that moves fast. I'm here because he asked. Because it's been too long since I showed up for something that wasn't work.
I tell myself that's all this is.
Then I see her.
At first it's just movement at the edge of my vision — a flash of navy under shifting lights. Something about the way she moves makes me look again.
Unrestrained. Unmeasured.
Elara.
She's on the dance floor, laughing, head tipped back slightly, hair loose down her back instead of pulled neatly away like it always is at the office. The dress she's wearing has nothing to do with professionalism. It moves when she does, clinging and releasing with every turn, her shoulders bare under the lights.
For a moment, the noise around me dulls.
This is the first time I've seen her outside glass walls and conference rooms, and the difference is disorienting. She isn't guarding herself here. She isn't watching the room with quiet caution.
She looks alive.
Someone near me mutters, "Who's that?"
Another guy leans forward, gaze tracking the same direction. "Yeah. She's… something."
Ryan follows their line of sight, eyebrows lifting. "Good taste in music too."
The casual interest in their voices irritates me more than it should.
"She's with someone," I say.
Ryan glances at me. "You sure?"
I don't answer, because I'm not.
A woman — a friend, I assume — dances with her, pulling her close, spinning her around. Elara stumbles slightly, laughing, steadying herself with a hand on her friend's shoulder.
Alcohol.
Not excessive. But enough.
Enough to soften the edges she keeps so firmly in place.
One of the guys at the table straightens, already half standing. "I might go say hi."
"No."
The word comes out low. Final.
Ryan's head snaps toward me. "That sounded personal."
"Drop it," I say.
He studies me, then smirks. "Didn't know you had a thing for dancers."
"I don't."
But I'm already watching her again.
Her friend gets pulled away by someone else, disappearing into the crowd. Elara drifts toward the edge of the floor, swaying slightly, drink lifted again. She takes another sip.
That's when I move.
I don't plan it. I don't justify it. I'm already crossing the room before I acknowledge the decision.
She looks up when I stop in front of her, surprise flashing across her face.
"Mr. Hale?" Her eyes widen slightly. "I didn't expect to see you here."
"Neither did I," I say — because honesty feels easier than explanation.
Up close, it's worse. The alcohol has warmed her skin, flushed her cheeks, softened her expression. She smells faintly of citrus and something sweet. I'm acutely aware of how close we're standing, of how thin the line is here.
"I was just… out," she says, gesturing vaguely around us. "Celebrating."
"So was I."
She tilts her head. "What are you celebrating?"
"A friend's investment."
She smiles. "That's nice."
There's a pause. Charged. She's looking at me differently — not the careful, guarded way she does at work.
Curious.
"You look different," she says suddenly.
"Different how?"
She sways slightly. "Less serious."
"That's debatable."
She laughs softly, and the sound does something unwelcome to my chest.
"How much have you had to drink?" I ask.
She considers. "Enough to stop overthinking."
That confirms it.
The crowd shifts, pressing us closer. Music surges. Someone bumps into her shoulder and she stumbles forward.
Instinct takes over.
My hand catches her arm.
She looks up at me — startled, steadying herself — and the world narrows to that moment.
I don't dance.
I never have.
But the crowd moves again, and suddenly we're moving with it, her body close, my hand still at her arm. The music pulses through the floor, through my chest, and I realize with a sharp, unwelcome clarity that I don't want to let go.
I should step back.
I don't.
She looks at me like she's trying to place something she didn't expect to find.
"Alex," she says.
Hearing my name like that snaps something tight inside me.
I lean in.
I don't think. I don't weigh consequences. I don't pretend this is anything but what it is.
I kiss her.
It's brief. Controlled. And completely unforgivable.
Her body goes still.
I pull back immediately, already knowing I've crossed a line I can't undo.
Her eyes are wide, shocked, breath unsteady.
God.
What wouldn't I do for this woman.
"We're stepping outside," I say.
She blinks. "Is that an order?"
"It's a suggestion you should take."
She hesitates, then nods, letting me guide her toward the exit.
The cool air hits her and she inhales sharply, eyes closing for a moment like she's grounding herself.
"Better?" I ask.
She nods. "Much."
She tries calling her friend. No answer.
We start walking. Slowly.
Halfway to the car, she bends forward suddenly, one hand braced on her knee. I move without thinking, holding her hair back as she retches once, breath shaking.
"I'm sorry," she murmurs, mortified.
"It's fine," I say quietly, my hand lingering at her back longer than necessary.
I help her into the car.
When she straightens, she looks at me with unfocused eyes. "How old are you?"
The question catches me off guard. "Why?"
"You don't look like you belong here," she says thoughtfully. "You seem… older."
"Older than what?"
"Older than me."
I smirk. "How old do you think I am?"
She squints. "Forty?"
I stop.
Her eyes widen. "Too high?"
"I'm thirty-two."
"Oh." She nods decisively. "That's acceptable."
I laugh despite myself. "That's generous of you."
She studies me again. "You're attractive for someone your age."
"For someone my age," I repeat.
"I meant it as a compliment."
Then, quieter: "I didn't think my first kiss would be like that."
The world stills.
"Your first?" I ask.
She nods, suddenly self-conscious. "I know it sounds stupid."
"It doesn't," I say immediately.
Silence stretches.
"What did you think it would be like?" I ask.
She hesitates. "Important. Like I'd feel it everywhere. Like I wouldn't forget it."
Something tightens in my chest.
"If I kiss you again," I say carefully, "it won't be because you've been drinking."
She looks at me. Really looks at me.
I wait.
Before she can answer, footsteps approach.
"Elara! There you are."
A woman stops short, eyes flicking between us. "And who are you?"
Before I can speak, Elara says quickly, "Kyla — this is my boss. Alexander Hale."
Kyla's eyes sharpen. "Your boss?"
"We were looking for you," Elara rushes on. "Why weren't you picking up?"
Kyla exhales. "Let's go. It's late."
She turns to me. "Thank you for helping her. Good night, Mr. Hale."
Elara is already moving away, embarrassment hitting her all at once. She doesn't look back.
She disappears into the crowd in seconds.
I stand there alone, the echo of that kiss still warm on my lips.
And I know — with brutal clarity —
I've crossed a line I won't be able to redraw.