Chapter Text
Softer, harder, in-between,
you know just how to get to me.
James sits at the bar, a half-empty (half-full? He never quite gets the metaphor) measure of bourbon in front of him, ice melting slow. Condensation from the glass pooling on the glossy bar-top, he drags a fingertip through it, watches the surface tension split it into tiny droplets as it spreads across the wood.
The low hum of voices and laughter buzzes around him, but he’s not really listening, just watching, just taking in the rhythm of the place. The way the bartender moves between each customer with a quickly-resetting smile, like he’s done this a thousand times just tonight, the way a group of college-sweatshirt-clad guys in the corner gets rowdier with every round, the way the woman at the end of the bar (blonde, pretty, smirking at something her friend just said) looks like she’s got better places to be but chose to be here anyway.
His elbows rest against the bar, comfortable posting up here for the evening. The Barracks has always been a decent enough dive, with its dim lights, worn wooden bar, the faint scents of spilled beer and something fried and piss-poor decisions. It’s the kind of place that’s been here forever — a menu that no regular dares order food from, floor (and ceiling, somehow) sticky in all the wrong places, but still managing to feel like home for people who don’t mind a little grime with their liquor.
The music is loud enough to drown out most conversations, but not so loud that people aren’t still leaning in close, voices raised enough to be heard over the gritty growl of an old rock song playing from the jukebox in the corner. George Thorogood maybe. Something with a steady, confident beat, the kind of song that’s probably playing in a hundred bars just like this one, in a hundred different towns, always sounding just right after a couple of drinks.
He takes another sip, letting the rich burn of the alcohol roll all tingly across his gums. Lets his eyes wander across the liquor shelf, glass bottles shining like colourful gems. The back of the bar is all mirrored, in desperate need of re-silvering. Even a quick swipe of Windex would help, probably.
He watches as one of the pretty young things at the other end of the bar stands, wobbling in her heels. Her friend, the smirking blonde, giggles and looks over her shoulder as her friend heads off in the direction of the bathroom. Like she’s making sure she gets there safely.
He can’t help but watch the blonde, perched on her barstool, picking at the label on the bottle of beer in front of her. She doesn’t look nervous, just looks bored, like she has somewhere better to be. It’s interesting, he thinks, that she doesn’t seem to acknowledge the swell of the crowd behind them, dancing on the gummy floors in between the high top tables. She sits here like she could be sitting anywhere in the world.
She catches him looking, her reflection in the mirror frowning at him in… confusion? The hell are you looking at? written in the lines between her eyebrows.
And instead of looking away with appropriate shame, instead of pretending he wasn’t just watching her like she’s the most interesting thing in this room (she is!), James tips his glass slightly in her direction and grins. She raises an eyebrow. And then — just barely — she smirks back. An acknowledgment? An invitation? A challenge?
Whatever it is, it’s all he needs.
James downs the rest of his drink, wipes the condensation on his jeans, then stands and slides over next to her, all easy charm, leaning back against the bar. “What’s a woman like you doin’ in a place like this?”
She doesn’t even glance at him. “Oh, good. A man with originality.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Damn. Didn’t even give me a chance to get creative.”
She takes a sip of her beer, finally looking at him. Cool blue eyes, assessing him like she’s already decided exactly who he is. “Didn’t seem like you were going to.”
That grin of his widens. Oh, he likes her already.
“Well, maybe I was gonna follow it up with somethin’ real clever.” He leans in a little, like he’s about to let her in on a secret. “Somethin’ like… can I buy you a drink?”
She tilts her head, unimpressed. “And that would be the clever part?”
James lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. “You are mean , darlin’.”
“Not mean.” She swirls the last dregs of the drink in her bottle. “Just efficient. Saves time if we skip the part where you pretend to be interesting.”
He barks out a disbelieving laugh. “Damn. You always cut fellas down this quick, or am I just special?” He smiles, motions to the bartender for another drink. He notes the way the blonde woman’s gaze rakes over him when she thinks he isn’t looking. He can practically feel it, the hot and scraping sensation of her eyes on him.
She hums, considering him as the bartender dutifully provides him with another glass of bourbon. “You strike me as a man who enjoys a challenge.”
Now it’s his turn to sip his drink, watching her over the rim. “That your way of sayin’ you want me to try harder?”
She smirks. “No. It’s my way of saying you will , whether I want you to or not.”
James chuckles, tapping a finger against the bar. “Smart and beautiful. Dangerous combination.”
“And yet, you’re still here.”
“Oh, I ain’t goin’ anywhere.” He gestures to the bartender. “Another round?”
She lifts an eyebrow but doesn’t protest when he orders her another drink. When it’s set in front of her, she picks it up, giving him a look over the mouth of the bottle. “So what’s your deal?”
“My deal?”
“You’re too smooth to be local, too charming to be normal, and too persistent to be sane.” She takes a slow sip. “So. What’s your deal?”
James grins, resting an elbow back on the bar. (He notes the way her eyes linger on his forearms, and he flexes his muscles to indulge her.) “Well now, sweetheart, that’s an awful lot of assumptions.”
“Am I wrong?”
He exhales, shaking his head. “Damn. You’re somethin’ else.”
She just raises a brow like she already knows that.
“I travel,” he says finally, as if that explains anything.
Her lips twitch like she’s amused. “What, professionally?”
“Somethin’ like that,” he says with a tip of his glass. “I go where the wind takes me.”
She scoffs. “That’s a non-answer.”
“Maybe. Or maybe I like keepin’ a little mystery.”
She tilts her head, studying him. “You don’t seem like the mysterious type.”
“No?” He shifts a little closer, voice dropping just enough to make it noticeable. “Then what do I seem like?”
She sets the beer bottle down, folds her arms on the bar. “Cocky.”
“Guilty.”
“Overconfident.”
“Well, when you’re right, you’re right.”
“Incorrigible.”
He grins. “Big word. Fancy way of sayin’ ‘irresistible’?”
She laughs then, shaking her head. “God, you love this, don’t you?”
“Love what?”
“The chase.”
He leans in, eyes locked on hers. “Only when it’s worth it.”
For a moment, neither of them move. The bar hums around them, the clink of glasses, murmurs of conversation, but the air between them is charged . He can’t ignore the heat radiating from
Then, she picks up her beer, chugs the rest, and stands. “C’mon, let’s put you out of your misery.”
James blinks, caught off guard for half a second before he grins and follows her. Damn.
Her fingers fist in the fabric of his shirt as she tugs him into the vacuum of the dance floor. The air is hot, thick, drenched in tangible tension. A sous vide suctioning of the tender meat of their bodies.
His hands settle low on her hips, his fingers splayed, his grip firm but patient, letting her set the pace. She moves against him, rolling her hips just enough to drive him crazy, like it’s a practiced science, like she knows exactly what she’s doing. And of course, she does. She’s in full control of this. Of him. Of everything.
(He wouldn’t dare admit it, especially not to her, especially not if she asked, but she’s been holding the reins from the start. His tongue lolls around the cool metal bit in his mouth.)
He dares to take her arm and spin her, delighting in the way her grin widens. A real smile, like she’s about to laugh, not the pointed and knowing smirk as before. It’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in his life.
Her back is against his chest, her body fitting against his like they’ve done this thousands of times before, like they know exactly how to move together. His hands follow the curve of her waist, fingers pressing just enough to make her arch back into him. He’s breathing her in, vanilla and something darker, muskier, maybe the lager on her lips, maybe just the way she smells, like trouble and control all wrapped up in one.
She dances with a kind of calculated carelessness, letting herself fall into the rhythm. It’s not just dancing — it’s teasing, it’s toying with him, seeing just how much she can push before he does something about it.
His grip tightens on her, slowing down her moves and letting himself feel her. Letting her feel him. Sinking deep into the moment, ignoring the rocking roll of the song altogether.
She tilts her head slightly, mouth close to his ear. “You always dance this slow, cowboy?”
James grins lazily, lips ghosting against her temple. “Only when it’s worth takin’ my time.”
She huffs out a laugh, but it’s breathier now, not quite as sharp. Still, she doesn’t let him have the upper hand that easily. She shifts, pressing back harder, her hips dragging against him in a way that has every muscle in his body going tight.
“You’re sure you can keep up?” she murmurs, voice smooth, challenging.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, right against her ear, “I ain’t even close to done.”
James slides a hand up her side, fingertips grazing bare skin where her top rides up. He feels the shiver that rolls through her, the quick intake of breath before she steadies herself.
And that? Well, goddamn. That’s his favourite thing yet.
The bathroom door has barely banged shut behind them before she’s on him. No hesitation, no second thoughts — he doesn’t even register if the door is locked or not. He doesn’t even care. She fists his shirt, pulls him in, and kisses him ferociously, like she’s got something to prove. James groans against her lips, backing her against the sink, hands at her waist, fingernails digging into her just hard enough to make her gasp.
“You always drag handsome strangers into bar bathrooms, sweetheart?” he murmurs against her neck, lips trailing along her jaw.
She smirks, fingers curling in his hair. “Don’t think I said anything about handsome,” and he prides himself in the way her breath hitches as he slides his hands under her shirt, palming her breasts. “Only the ones who aren’t worth the effort to bring home.”
He lets out a low laugh. “Damn, Blondie, think I might love you,” he teases, teeth scraping at the junction between her neck and shoulder.
She laughs, dark and wicked. “Shut up.”
And so he does.
Her fingers work fast, shoving at his belt, yanking it open like she’s done this a thousand times before. His head tips back for a second, a shaky exhale leaving his lips as she palms him through his jeans. She kisses him again, tongue lashing against his own. She tastes like Miller High Life and something vaguely cherry-ish, maybe lip gloss.
“Jesus,” he mutters against her mouth, hands tightening on her hips. She smirks, that sharp, knowing look in her eyes even as she pulls him down to kiss her more, nipping at his bottom lip just to make him groan.
“Thought you were supposed to be smooth,” she murmurs, voice teasing, but there’s something breathless beneath it now.
James huffs a laugh, already reaching for the zipper of her jeans. “Oh, I’m smooth, sweetheart. You’re just in a hurry.” She lifts an eyebrow with that combative, challenging allure, and then hooks a leg around his hip, pressing up against him just right, and any smugness he thought he’d earned vanishes into a strangled groan.
“Shut up, cowboy,” she breathes against his lips, unable to hide the jumble of want and need in her voice. “And hurry up.”
They barely make it out of their clothes — her jeans shoved down just enough, his undone enough to free himself, the cups of her bra yanked down and the hem of her shirt pulled right up so he can mouth at her nipples. Everything is frantic, desperate, reckless. He lifts her easily, pressing her against the mirror above the sink, and she gasps when he thrusts into her, hands gripping his shoulders like she wasn’t expecting him to take control back so easily.
Her nails bite into his skin. His mouth finds her neck again, and then there’s nothing but heat and pressure, rough edges and gasping breaths. She tilts her head back, biting back a sound, and James grins against her skin.
“What?” he murmurs, voice rough. “Ain’t got somethin’ smart to say now?” She digs her nails deeper into his skin in response, rocking against him harder, taking exactly what she wants from him.
It’s messy. It’s reckless. It’s probably the best damn thing either of them has had in a long time.
And when it’s over, neither of them move right away, still breathing hard, still pressed close, still feeling the groaning ghost of it in every part of their bodies.
She pulls away first, wriggling under him like she's uncomfortable. She’s still pressed against him, breath warm against his lips, fingers curled in his shirt like she’s debating whether to let go. James stares at her, chest rising and falling, trying to remember how to breathe.
Then, just like that, she exhales sharply, like snapping herself out of a trance.
“My friends are probably looking for me,” she mutters, wiping the gleaming traces of him off of her, readjusting her clothes, smoothing down her hair like they didn’t just spend the last ten (fifteen? twenty? ninety?) minutes tangled up against the sink.
James blinks, head foggy with lust, still catching up. “Huh?”
She snorts, tilting her head. “What were you expecting?”
His tongue darts across his bottom lip, still tasting her. “Well, sweetheart, we’re barely gettin’ started.”
She huffs a quiet laugh, stepping back. She doesn't say anything, just tosses the come-covered paper towel in the trash and flicks her hair over her shoulder. Something about that hits him in a place he doesn’t quite understand. Before he can say anything else, she’s already reaching for the door.
“Hey.” He catches her wrist, just for a second. “You gonna give me your name?” She looks down at where he’s touching her, then back up, eyes shining with something unreadable.
“You’ll live,” she says.
And then she’s gone.
James stands there for a long moment, running a hand through his hair, still feeling her on his skin.
When he finally steps out of the bathroom, he scans the bar, but she’s already disappeared.
He slouches in the backseat of the Uber, staring out at the passing city lights, but all he sees is her . The way she smirked against his lips, like she already knew she had him. The way her fingers curled in his hair, tugged just right, sent a damn shiver down his spine. The way she tasted — sharp, intoxicating, something he should forget, but already knows he won’t.
His heart’s still hammering in his chest, like he left part of himself back in that bar bathroom. It wasn’t just the kiss — he’s had plenty of those. It was the way she matched him, step for step, word for word. Didn’t flinch, didn’t shy away. Didn’t let him win.
And damn , he liked losing to her.
He rubs his palms down across his face, digs the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, exhaling slowly. Jesus, Ford. Get a grip.
This was nothing. A moment, a flash of heat. He should let it fade into the background like every other forgettable night, every other woman whose name he never learned.
But this feels different. She felt different.
He doesn’t even know her name, and yet she’s burned into him, just under his skin. A brand — no, a birthmark.
The Uber slows to a stop outside his place. He thanks the driver and drags himself out, feet heavy as he climbs the stairs. His body is exhausted, but his mind won’t quit. Keeps replaying her voice, her laugh, the way she looked at him like she already had him figured out.
By the time he collapses onto the bed, he’s still not sure if he wants to chase the memory or drown it.
Beside him, Kate stirs, shifting under the covers.
“You’re home late,” she mumbles, not even opening her eyes. Her voice is thick with sleep.
For a second, he just stares at the ceiling. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth. A swarm of words push at the back of his throat, but none of them come out.
He doesn’t have the energy to lie.
Doesn’t have the heart to tell the truth.
So he says nothing at all.