Page 72 of Bar Down

He looked like he’d been carved into stillness. Jacket open, his hands loose at his sides, his shoulders tense like he hadn’t exhaled since they left the bar.

She crossed to him in three unhurried steps and held out her hand.

Not a command. An invitation.

Marcus looked down at it for a long second. Then his gaze met hers.

She didn’t smile.

Neither did he.

But he took her hand.

She pulled him forward, guiding him into the center of the room where the floor opened just wide enough for two people to move. She wrapped one arm around his neck and rested her other hand lightly on his shoulder.

He hesitated—just a breath—before his arm came around her waist.

They started to sway.

It wasn’t dancing, not really. There was no choreography. No pattern. Just weight and breath and proximity. His body was solid against hers, and hers molded into him without resistance.

Stephanie tilted her head and let it rest against his chest. Beneath the fabric of his shirt, she could feel the slow, strong rhythm of his heart. It grounded her more than she expected.

He smelled faintly of sweat, soap, and the lingering smoke of The Rusty Blade’s kitchen fryer. She didn’t care.

Her fingers slid into the hair at the nape of his neck. His hand at her waist tightened just slightly. They moved together like a single thought—slow, magnetic, unrushed.

She turned her face toward his neck, her lips barely brushing the warm line of his throat.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly.

“For what?” His voice rumbled in his chest against her cheek.

“For the fight with Chenny. For Reed. For pulling you into all this.”

“You didn’t pull me,” he said. “I walked in.”

His hand slipped lower, flattening over the curve of her lower back. The shift pressed them even closer together, and the ache in her chest—the one that had been building since the first time he’d looked at her like she was more than a problem to solve—deepened.

Stephanie tilted her head, her mouth a whisper away from his.

“Dance with me a little longer.”

Marcus’s answer was to kiss her. Slowly. Deeply. Not a question. Not forgiveness. Something heavier than both. Marcus’s mouth moved against hers. His lips were warm and firm, but unhurried. He kissed her like the night was theirs to burn, and he had no intention of rushing the match. She melted into the kiss.

His hand at her lower back slipped under the hem of her blouse, skin meeting skin. She shivered—not from cold, but from the sudden intimacy of it. The touch wasn’t possessive. It was grounding, reverent.

She pulled back just enough to speak, their foreheads nearly touching. “Stay with me tonight.”

“I was hoping you’d ask.”

Stephanie swallowed, her throat tight. “Good.”

She backed toward the couch, tugging him with her. They sat, knees brushing. She lifted her leg across his lap, straddling him in one smooth motion.

Marcus blinked up at her, like he was watching the earth tilt.

She slid her hands up beneath his shirt, palms skimming over the hard planes of his stomach and chest. He exhaled, eyes falling half-lidded as her thumbs grazed the line just beneath his ribs.

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