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My pulse trips again. It's clearly been too long. I'm touch-starved… everything-starved, really, and this guy looks delicious. But it can't be him.

Rian was warm and teasing, always ready with a joke for every occasion. He smiled at every stupid dad joke my dad ever told, and ruffled my hair when I was much younger whenever I'd walk past. He was effortlessly confident, and never took anything too seriously.

This man looks like he hasn't smiled in years. He looks like the world is crushing him, or maybe already has. I can't get a read on his age—maybe late thirties, or maybe a little older. There are lines carved at the edges of his eyes and mouth. He looks coiled tight, like he's ready to fight at the first opportunity.

But God, he's so fucking hot. And the reminder of Rian, after all these years, feels like a fantasy that I never got to experience. I've never slept with anyone who made my heart race and my blood run hot. Honestly, the variety of sex toys I eventually got brave enough to purchase get me off better than any man ever has. Nothing has ever made me feel that breathless, dizzy desire that I once experienced as a teenager.

This man, though… it's not fluttery teenage lust, but I can feel myself getting wet just looking at him, heat gathering through my body as I squeeze my thighs together, my teeth sinking into my lower lip. He doesn't look like he wants to be approached, and I'm certainly not at my best tonight… but I look decent enough, even if I haven't put any effort in. I've been fortunate in the looks department.

The whiskey is warm in my veins, and I suddenly feel like making a bad decision, even if it might result in being embarrassed again. It wouldn't feel like that long-ago day, anyway. I'm older now, and less sensitive to rejection. If this guy doesn't want me, it's his loss. But if he does…

God, I want—I don't even know what I want. Just something different from exhaustion and obligation and the weight of other people's pain pressing down on me. I rarely do anything for myself. This could be for me.

And hell, it's not like he's not going to get something out of it.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I catch the bartender's attention. "Another whiskey," I say, nodding toward the man in the booth. "One for myself, and one for him. On me."

The bartender shrugs and pours two, pushing one toward me and the other toward the man. The bartender says something quiet to him that I can't hear, and then the man looks up, startled. His gaze cuts across the room to me.

Our eyes meet.

I'm a doctor. There's always a medical explanation for hearts racing and blood heating and stomachs clenching. I don't go in for all that nonsense about chemistry and lust or love at first sight and ephemeral explanations for how a person makes someone else feel. It's all hormones and chemicals.

But when his green eyes lock onto mine, I forget that, suddenly. I feel a sharp jolt run through me, like I've been electrocuted. My nipples tighten under my t-shirt and if I was wet before, I've probably soaked through my panties now. My thighs clench again.

He's staring at me like he's not sure I'm real. Like I'm some kind of mirage that might disappear if he blinks. Something hungry fills his gaze, and my heart beats faster in response.

I should go home and get some rest. Tomorrow will be another long day. I don't have time for this. And something in the back of my head pings instinctively, whispering that this man is dangerous. That I'm biting off more than I can chew.

But I ignore it.

I slide off my stool and walk over.

Up close, he's even more devastatingly handsome. His eyes are a soft green with hints of brown and gold in them, more hazel than truly green. He has a scar on his cheek and through his eyebrow, and more on his hands. I have a feeling there's others I can't see. Ones I might see later.

The thought makes my mouth go dry.

And I wasn't wrong to think he's dangerous. His eyes are hungry when they land on me, but cold, too. He looks like any softness he ever had has been carved off of him. And there's an emptiness to his gaze, behind the hunger, that suddenly makes my chest ache. The part of me that hurts for every person who comes through my clinic's door, that lies awake at night wondering if I'm doing enough, suddenly wants to find the source of that emptiness and fix it. Give this man something to hold onto that he doesn't have right now.

"Mind if I sit?" I ask.

He blinks like he's processing the question through layers of fog. "It's a free country."

Not exactly an enthusiastic invitation, but I take it. I slide onto the seat next to him, setting my own glass down on the scarred wood. "Thanks for the drink," he says after a moment. His voice is rough, like he hasn't used it much lately. Or like he's been screaming. "Didn't have to do that."

"I know." I take a sip of my whiskey, watching him over the rim. "You looked like you could use it."

"That obvious, huh?"

"Little bit."

The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close. "Bad day?"

"A long one." I set my glass down. "You?"

"Something like that."

We sit in silence for a moment. It should be awkward, but it's not. There's something almost comfortable about it, like we're two people who've both been through the wringer today and for a while before that, and don't have the energy for small talk.