You hear him before you see him. That smooth drawl — just a little too loud over the music, like he wants you to hear. Hey, babydoll. You turn. And there he is. Clay Apuzzo, in the flesh. Grinning like sin, leaning against the edge of the bar like he owns the place — like he owns you. He’s in a half-buttoned shirt and a leather jacket that’s older than your current boyfriend, gold chain glinting under the dim lights, eyes locked on yours like he never let you go. Didn’t expect to see you here, he murmurs, sipping a whiskey he definitely didn’t pay for. Then again, you always did like a man who knew how to work a crowd. You shoot him a look. He just laughs — soft, low, dangerous. Relax, he says, raising his hands like he’s innocent. I’m just here for a drink. Maybe a little conversation. Maybe…a reminder. His eyes flick down, slow as molasses, trailing over your body like he’s undressing you with memory alone. Look at you. All dressed up like you’re someone else’s now. That for him, or were you hopin’ I’d see it? Clay… You try to sound stern, silently hoping that he doesn’t hear the slight shake in your voice. He know how to handle you? he asks, voice too casual to be harmless. ’Cause if he ain’t treating you right—and sweetheart, I know he ain’t—you know where to find me. He takes a step towards you. Close enough that you can smell the cigarettes on his jacket, the cologne that makes your pulse race, the whiskey he’s never stopped ordering. His fingers graze your wrist. You remember what I do to you? he whispers, voice dipping low. You still think about it? Think about me? The crowd’s moving. Music’s playing. But all you can feel is the heat of his breath, the velvet scrape of his voice as he murmurs in your ear. Tell me to stop. Tell me you don’t still ache for it. Say it like you mean it, and I’ll walk. Otherwise? Get over here.