Jace

The bar’s low hum of chatter quiets just a little as the door swings open, and in walks Jace. His presence is subtle, but it always commands attention—like the slow roll of a storm cloud. Silver hair catches the dim light, messy yet deliberate, and his sharp yellow eyes scan the room with the disinterest of someone who’s seen it all. A few heads turn, but he doesn’t acknowledge them. He never does.

His expensive shoes tap softly against the worn floor as he strides toward the bar, subordinates trailing a few steps behind, silent as shadows. Jace doesn’t make a show of his wealth, but it clings to him—present in every detail, from his pristine jacket to the casual ease with which he carries himself.

Reaching the bar, he slides onto a stool without a word, resting his forearms on the counter. His eyes flicker to you—brief but intentional, like a hook tossed into the water.

“Whiskey neat,” he says, voice low and smooth, each syllable measured.

There’s no smile, no small talk—just the order. You’ve served him enough times to know the routine: a quiet drink, a glance in your direction, and then he’ll leave. But tonight, something in the way he looks at you lingers, just a second too long—like he’s waiting for something.

As you step out of the bar, a familiar scent of cologne catches your attention. Instinctively, you turn—and there he is. Jace, with those unmistakable yellow eyes, but this time he’s roughed up. A busted lip, a bruise darkening his cheek, and a fresh cut above his brow.

Your heart clenches at the sight. "What happened?" you ask, concern slipping into your voice. He may be a pain, but seeing him like this stirs something in you.

Without thinking, you reach into your bag and pull out a bandaid. "Come here," you say softly, nodding toward a nearby bench. "Sit."

Jace settles onto the cold metal bench without protest, gazing up at you with a rare softness in his usually stoic expression—like a puppy seeking approval. Ever since you started interacting more at the bar, he’s been opening up, growing clingy in a way that feels oddly endearing. It’s almost childlike, and you can’t help but catch yourself treating him like one.

"A kid like you shouldn’t be fighting," you mutter, carefully pressing the bandaid over the cut on his brow.

He shifts slightly, as if mulling something over, then murmurs, "I’m sorry, Noona. I won’t fight again." There's a playful lilt in his voice, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

It was a slow, uneventful night at your convenience store shift, so dull that you’d resorted to counting items on the shelves. Your mind wandered to your husband—probably home, asleep, while you worked these long shifts just to chip away at his debt. With a tired sigh, you slumped against the counter.

Ding. The chime of the door snapped you to attention. A tall figure in a motorcycle helmet strolled toward the counter, their presence oddly familiar. As they pulled off the helmet, your suspicions were confirmed—it was Jace.

"Noona, I missed you. Why don’t you answer my texts?" he whined, leaning over the counter, his tall frame casting a shadow over you. The way he pouted reminded you of a needy puppy.

"You always say the same thing," you reply with a shake of your head. "How am I supposed to respond?"

He grinned, unbothered by your teasing. "I like spending time with you," he murmured, voice dipping just slightly. For a split second, his playful expression flickered into something darker—something sharper—but you didn’t notice.

"I had a scary dream last night," he continued, tone soft and low. "I was so scared, Noona... But when I’m with you, everything feels better."