My husband is a bartender

The elevator ride to Jackson Lloyd's apartment was silent, save for the faint hum of its machinery. Jackson stood awkwardly, one arm firmly wrapped around Stella Stallion to keep her steady as he pressed the elevator button. Stella rested against him, her head lolling against his chest, her breathing soft and even. Her arms hung limply, and her perfume—a subtle blend of vanilla and floral notes—lingered in the confined space. Her weight served as a constant reminder of the unexpected twist his night had taken.

As the elevator doors slid open, Jackson adjusted his hold on her, carefully balancing her in his arms. His modest apartment greeted him with its unassuming coziness: a sofa in the corner, a compact kitchen, and a small dining table pushed against the wall. Though his space was humble, it was a far cry from the kind of luxury he imagined someone like Stella was accustomed to. Still, it was clean, simple, and functional—exactly what he needed.

Carefully, he carried her through the doorway, kicking it shut behind him. The faint smell of coffee and the quiet hum of his refrigerator greeted him. Heading straight for his bedroom, he lowered her onto the bed, pausing as she instinctively curled slightly onto her side.

In the dim light, her face looked softer, stripped of the guarded expression she had worn earlier at the bar.

Stella stirred slightly, her hand brushing against his arm before falling back to her side. Jackson stood there for a moment, watching her. In her sleep, the tension she carried seemed to melt away, leaving behind a softer, more vulnerable version of the woman he'd met. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

He walked to the bathroom, fetched a clean towel and a bowl of water, and returned to the bedroom. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he gently wiped her face, removing the smudges of makeup and the faint sheen of sweat. Her skin was warm under his touch, her features serene and calm.

As he worked, his eyes kept drifting to her. There was a kind of beauty to her, but it wasn't just her appearance. It was something deeper, something fragile, hidden beneath her composed exterior.

Once he was satisfied, he set the bowl aside and gently cleaned her hands, noting the faint calluses on her palms—a surprising detail for someone he assumed was a pampered heiress. He ran his thumb lightly over them, lost in thought.

"You're full of surprises," he murmured, placing her hands gently by her sides.

When he finished, he placed the cloth aside. Looking at her sleeping peacefully, he brushed a few stray bangs from her forehead.

"Have you always been this careless with other men?" Jackson muttered under his breath, his brows furrowing. He didn't know why the thought bothered him.

She was a stranger, a customer at the bar—someone he had no business worrying about. Yet the image of her throwing herself into his arms, vulnerable and unguarded, lingered in his mind.

The thought of her being this way with others left a bitter taste in his mouth. He shook his head, frustrated that such an idea had even crossed his mind.

With a sigh, he turned to leave, but before he could take a step, he felt a soft tug on his wrist.

"Don't go," Stella murmured, her voice faint but pleading.

Jackson froze, his eyes darting to her face. Her hand wrapped around his wrist, her grip surprisingly firm for someone who'd drunk herself into near oblivion. He hesitated, unsure how to respond, but her grip slackened, and she fell back into a deeper sleep.

Shaking his head, he gently pulled his hand free.

As he exited the bedroom he headed to the small kitchen to prepare something for her. After rounds of drinks, she would likely wake up with a pounding headache and hunger.

Quietly, Jackson rummaged through his pantry, pulling out ingredients for a simple hangover soup. As he chopped and stirred, the rhythmic motions helped calm the storm of thoughts in his head. Why had he brought her here? Why was he so concerned about someone he barely knew? He thought aloud and at some point he shrugged and decided to go with the flow.

The city outside his window had quieted to a low murmur by the time the soup simmered gently on the stove. He prepared a simple dish he could reheat for her later, he poured the soup into a container and stored it in the fridge.

Exhausted, Jackson grabbed a bottle of water and placed it on the bedside table in case Stella woke up during the night. Satisfied that she was fine, he fetched a spare blanket from the closet and made his way to the couch in the living room.

Collapsing onto the cushions, the weight of the day finally caught up to him. Stella's faint perfume still clung to his shirt, a reminder of the strange turn his night had taken. Picking up his phone, he texted Carl to thank him for covering his shift.

Staring up at the ceiling, Jackson couldn't shake the feeling that his life had just taken an unexpected turn. Stella Stallion was no ordinary woman, and this encounter felt like the beginning of something far more complicated than he was prepared for.

As sleep tugged at the edges of his consciousness, one thought lingered: this wasn't the last he'd see of her.