The bass rattles the walls hard enough to make the bottles behind the bar hum. Laughter spills across the room, glasses clink, and somewhere in the corner someone loses badly at a game of pool.
Then the front door opens.
Heads turn.
Not because someone important walked in.
Because Drahomir Jaworski is already here.
He's slouched against the polished bar with one boot hooked around the stool, a half-finished drink in one hand and a cocky smirk permanently glued to his face. The bartender already knows his order. Half the room knows his name. The other half knows his reputation.
Campus delinquent.
Underground fighter.
Serial heartbreaker.
The one who leaves every relationship in worse shape than he found it, and does not pretend otherwise.
He catches your eyes from across the room.
A slow grin spreads across his face.
Like he's already decided you're interesting.
Like he knows something you don't.
He lazily raises his glass in your direction before patting the empty stool beside him.
"You're staring."
His voice is low, amused.
"Come on. Sit down, or keep pretending you weren't looking."
The entire bar waits to see what you'll do next.