Bellamy POV
I heard footsteps approaching and immediately crouched lower under the booth table. My knees pressed into the red leather seat, my face hidden behind my hands. I couldn’t handle another person tonight. Not another voice. Not another hand reaching toward me.
The clink of a glass on the wooden table made my heart stop.
Whoever it was… they’d sat down. Right across from me.
I peeked through my fingers—and almost choked on my own sob.
He’s a goddamn good looking guy. Not the polished, overly perfect kind. No. This man looked dangerous in the just-enough kind of way.
His shirt was half unbuttoned, revealing a hint of collarbone and a silver chain. His hair was damp, curling at the edges from the rain, and his jawline could cut stone. But it wasn’t just that. There was something about his eyes—gray, maybe blue? I couldn’t tell in the dim light—but they looked like they’d seen too much.
And they were staring right at me.
“Can I buy you a drink?” He offered me his untouched whiskey.
I shook my head. “No, thanks. I don’t accept drinks from strangers.”
He raised a brow. “I’m Tristan.” And then without waiting for response, he whistled and turned his head. “Waiter!”
A server walked over, holding a pen and a small notebook. Tristab looked at me, then back at the server.
“Let the lady choose,” he said. “Whatever she wants. It’s on me.”
I sighed and glanced at the waiter. “Fine. Whiskey. Neat.”
The stranger looked impressed. “Damn. Didn’t peg you for a straight whiskey type.”
“Didn’t peg you for the type who sits with crying women in bars,” I snapped.
The drinks came, and we didn’t speak for a while. Just… stared.
Something about the silence didn’t feel awkward. It felt like we were two people on the edge of a cliff, staring down into the same black hole.
He broke the silence first.
“So… what’s a beautiful girl like you doing crying in a place like this?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Seriously? That’s your line?”
He lifted his glass again. “Okay, I’ll try again. You look like someone who just lost a war.”
I looked down. My fingers curled around the glass. “I’m escaping.”
He tilted his head. “Escaping what? Jail?”
I almost laughed. Almost. “Close.”
He waited, patient. His eyes didn’t press, but they didn’t look away either.
I swallowed hard. “My husband.”
His jaw tensed, just barely. “Let me guess. He’s the reason you’re crying into a whiskey glass right now?”
I nodded slowly. “He’s been… hurting me. For two years.”
His smirk disappeared. Silence stretched between us again, but this time it was heavier.
“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” he said, gently now. The sarcasm was gone.
“No,” I said, voice cracking. “I want to. I’ve never said it out loud before.”
He didn’t interrupt. He just waited.
“He started small. Yelling. Then it was pushing. Slapping. Telling me I was worthless. Today, he threw a vase at my head. I ran. That’s how I ended up here.”
He was quiet for a long beat. Then he leaned forward and said, “Good.”
I blinked. “Good?”
“You ran,” he said simply. “That’s braver than most people ever manage.”
I stared at him, unsure of what to say.
“And you?” I asked. “What are you escaping?”
He looked down into his glass like it held the answer. “Grief.”
I waited.
“My parents died today,” he said. “Plane crash. Both of them. I got the call a few hours ago.”
My heart dropped. “Oh my God.”
He shrugged like it didn’t matter, but I saw it—the tremble in his hand, the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
He raised his glass. “To being fucked up and sitting in bars.”
I hesitated, then lifted mine. “To survival.”
We clinked our glasses. He took a sip, then said, “Drinking numbs the pain.”
I nodded. “Yeah. But only for a while.”
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “A while is all I need tonight.”
Me too, stranger. Me too.
—
“I actually have an interview tomorrow,” I blurted, setting down my glass a little too hard. The rim clinked against the wood, and some of the whiskey sloshed over the edge and onto my hand.
The stranger—this beautiful man with the soft voice and stormy eyes—looked up from his drink and raised a brow. “Oh really?” he said, leaning forward like I just told him something scandalous. “And here you are… getting wasted.”
I smirked and leaned back, feeling a slow warmth spread across my chest—half from the alcohol, half from his teasing grin. “Yep. Because of you.”
“Me?” he laughed, eyes wide in mock offense. “What did I do?”
“You sat down,” I replied simply, a lazy smile tugging at my lips. “You and your ridiculously pretty face ruined any chance I had at a peaceful, sober night.”
He put a hand to his chest like he’d been shot. “Ouch. I guess I should say sorry then.”
“Well, don’t. I needed the distraction,” I murmured.
He tilted his glass toward me. “At least we’re having a good time, right?”
“That’s for sure,” I said with a little laugh, and for a second, we just sat there grinning at each other like two kids sneaking cookies at midnight.
Then I sighed and said, “But honestly? I am excited about the job. Really excited.”
He gave me a small smile. “That’s great. Congratulations.”
“I haven’t gotten it yet,” I said, playing with the rim of my glass.
“You will.”
“I hope so.” I swallowed hard. “I haven’t worked in over two years. Not since… well, not since I got married.”
His face softened. “He didn’t let you work?”
“Nope,” I said, popping the “p.” “He said I’d get too much attention at the office. That men would look at me.”
He shook his head, clearly disgusted.
“But I was already planning to leave,” I added. “So I started applying secretly a few months ago. This was the only place that called me back.” I smiled, proud of that little fact. “I was so nervous I wouldn’t hear from anyone… but then I did.”
He lifted his glass in a toast. “To second chances.”
“To freedom,” I said, clinking my drink with his.
After a pause, he looked at me with that boyish grin again. “So… you need me to wish you luck or something?”
I tilted my head, playful. “Actually, yeah. I could use a little luck.”
“Well, then… good luck, beautiful.”
I wrinkled my nose. “That’s it? I was hoping for something more memorable.”
“Like what?”
I bit my lip, heart racing. I don’t know what came over me. Maybe it was the way he was looking at me like I was the only person in the room. Maybe it was the ache in my chest that hadn’t stopped since I ran out of my mother’s house. Maybe it was the four drinks I’d had in under an hour.
But I said it anyway.
“I need a good luck kiss.”
His brows lifted. “Is that so?”
I leaned in, close enough to smell his cologne—something warm and woodsy with a hint of spice. “Yep.”
Our eyes locked. I saw something flicker in his—hunger, maybe, but also hesitation. He wasn’t the kind of man who pushed. That made me want him more.
Then he leaned in. Slowly. Like he wanted to give me time to change my mind.
I didn’t. I leaned in, too.
Our lips met in the softest, slowest kiss. Gentle at first, then deeper. His hand cupped my jaw like I was something fragile, and I melted into him, like my bones didn’t matter anymore.
I felt safe. For the first time in years, I felt safe.
We pulled apart, breathless, and just stared at each other.
“I—” I started, but he shook his head and stood up.
“Come with me.”
I didn’t ask where. I just followed.
The rain had stopped. The street was quiet. Just a few steps away from the bar was a small motel, the neon sign buzzing weakly above the door.
He booked a room, handed the key to the clerk, then looked at me.
One last time. One last chance to back out.
I didn’t.
We stumbled into the apartment, breathless and laughing, a tangle of limbs and energy. He pressed me gently against the wall, his hands finding my waist, his touch both urgent and reverent. His lips found mine again—fierce, searching—our kiss deepening with every heartbeat.
His hands slid down my sides, slow and sure, pulling me closer until there was no space left between us. I could feel his desire, the heat between us building like a storm barely contained. His fingers teased the edge of my dress, lifting the hem with a brush of knuckles against bare skin. I gasped softly into his mouth, my body already reacting to every subtle move.
He whispered my name like a secret as he sank to his knees, his hands tracing the shape of my thighs. He looked up at me, eyes dark and hungry, his voice a low promise. “Let me have you.” I nodded, barely able to breathe through the anticipation that coiled in my chest.
What came next was slow and deliberate. Worshipful. Every touch, every kiss, every stroke of his tongue was laced with intention. He learned my body like a language he already knew, pulling soft gasps and desperate whimpers from my lips as he unraveled me.
When he stood, his hands didn’t leave my skin. He lifted me effortlessly, my legs wrapping around him as he carried me to the bed. His gaze held mine as he lowered us down, and when he entered me, it was with a quiet groan that echoed every ounce of tension we’d been holding back.
He moved with purpose, his rhythm steady, his hands never leaving my body. I clung to him, every nerve alive, every breath a plea. His mouth found mine again, and I lost myself to the way he kissed me—like he wanted to remember the shape of my soul.
We moved together, bodies in perfect sync, until everything broke—until I shattered in his arms, and he followed, murmuring my name like a vow.
He stayed above me for a beat, eyes searching mine as our heartbeats slowed. Then he smiled, breathless, brushing a strand of hair from my face.
"Damn, you feel so good.”