rich!price after retiring going to an old bar he used to visit on his younger days.
The old pub hadn’t changed.
Same dim lights, same warped tables that wobbled if you leaned too hard, same smell of spilled beer soaked deep into the floorboards. Price hadn’t stepped foot in the place for years, not since before his hair had gone grey at the edges and his bank accounts had swelled from decades of bloody contracts.
He didn’t belong here anymore — not in the polished watch glinting on his wrist, the expensive coat draped over broad shoulders, or the quiet confidence of a man who had more money than time to spend it.
But he liked coming back now and then. To remind himself where he’d started.
He sat in the corner booth, cap tugged low, nursing the silence. The room was too loud for him, even when it was quiet. Laughter near the bar bled into the roar of gunfire in his memory. The scrape of a chair on wood was the screech of metal against concrete. Even now, years later, his body knew how to flinch before his mind caught up.
Price ran a hand over his beard, jaw tight. The weight of it pressed in — the things he’d seen, the things he’d done, the faces he couldn’t save. Nights like this, he felt every bit of it.
“Evening, sir. What’ll it be?”
Price looked up, his eyes found her. He meant to answer, but instead he found himself staring. The dim lights caught the shine in her eyes, the faint flush of her cheeks from rushing between tables. But it wasn’t just her face that held him — his gaze traced lower, to the way the little black apron tied snug around her waist, the soft curve of her hips shifting beneath the thin fabric of her uniform skirt.
The outfit wasn’t meant to be flattering, but on her it was. Too flattering. He wondered if she even realized.
“Sir?” she asked again, head tilting slightly, a hint of amusement in her tone. “Your order?”
Price blinked, throat tight, realizing she’d already asked him once. “Whisky,” he said finally, his voice rougher than he intended. “Neat.”
She gave him a quick smile before turning away, hips swaying without effort as she walked toward the bar. His eyes followed her, lingering longer than they should have, a heat curling low in his chest.
Too young. Too soft. Too far from the kind of world he’d lived in. He’d spent years wading through mud and blood, carrying scars no one else could see. Men like him didn’t deserve to want things that looked like her — bright eyes, an easy smile, curves wrapped up in a cheap little uniform that made his hands twitch with the urge to touch.
She was a kind of comfort he hadn’t felt in decades, but also a temptation sharper than any blade. It was the worst mix — something he could lose himself in, something that could make him forget who he was, if only for a moment.
Price leaned back in the booth, cigar rolling between his fingers as he lit it, She laughed at something a customer said, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, her apron pulling tight across her waist as she leaned over to set down drinks.
He had the money. More than enough to take her out of this run-down bar, away from late nights and greasy tips. He could put her in silk instead of cotton, diamonds instead of cheap studs. He could take care of her, give her anything she asked for—so long as she let him have what he wanted in return.
he wanted more than her smile at his table. He wanted those bright eyes on him alone, wanted to hear that warm little voice softening just for him. He wanted the softness of her hips in his palms, wanted to undo that ridiculous apron with a slow, deliberate pull.
Price dragged on his cigar, forcing his gaze back to the table. His chest felt heavy, a coil of want tightening there. She had no idea what kind of man sat in that booth—no idea the things he’d done, the things he still wanted.
But if she kept looking at him with that gentle smile… if she kept talking to him in that calm, sweet voice… he wasn’t sure how long he could keep from claiming it.
The waitress came back a few minutes later, balancing a tray against her hip. She set the glass of whisky in front of him, the amber liquid catching the light.
“There you are,” she said with a soft smile. “Neat, right?”
Price’s eyes lingered on her fingers as she slid the glass closer. Small hands. Delicate. He imagined how they’d look tangled in his own, or wrapped around a cigar, or-
“That’s right,” he rumbled, voice low. “You remembered.”
She gave a little shrug, playful. “Not hard when you’re the only one drinking it straight tonight.”
Price smirked faintly, lifting the glass. He let the burn of the whisky settle in his chest before answering. “Not many left who drink it properly, then.”
Price smirked faintly and lifted the glass, letting the whisky burn slow on his tongue before setting it down again. Instead of letting her step away, his gaze caught hers, steady and unyielding. “Sit down a second,” he said, more command than request, though his tone carried an edge of warmth.
She blinked, but this time, it wasn’t just surprise that made her linger. She glanced at his tailored coat, the watch glinting on his wrist, the air of quiet confidence that screamed money, power, influence. Staying just a moment longer could mean tips. Big tips. Maybe even more. She perched lightly on the edge of the booth, curiosity and calculation on her face.
“That’s better,” Price muttered, his eyes never leaving hers. “Funny thing, this place. Spent more nights here than I can count back in the day. Looks the same as it did then… though I can’t say the company was quite as pleasant.”
Her cheeks warmed under his stare. “You’re making it sound like I should take that as a compliment.”
“You should,” he said simply, leaning forward on his elbows. The low light carved the lines of his face into sharper relief, but there was a glint of something softer in his eyes—something that made it hard to look away. “Trust me, love. I don’t hand those out easy.”
She shifted slightly, pretending to be casual, but she couldn’t deny the pull of him. He wasn’t just commanding attention — he was anchoring it, holding her in place with that quiet intensity. She told herself she was here for the tips, for the chance to make this moment pay, but every glance, every subtle movement from him made it harder to focus on anything else. Even as her mind raced with practical thoughts, her chest tightened in a way she couldn’t explain.
Price leaned back slightly, letting the silence stretch, watching her fidget just a little on the edge of the booth. He could tell she was trying to stay composed, but the faint shadows under her eyes, the slight slump of her shoulders, the way she kept glancing at the floor before looking at him again — it all told him what she didn’t say.
“You work hard,” he said finally, low and steady, letting his words land like a weight. “Long nights, not much to show for it.”
She blinked, caught off guard, trying to hide the tug of nerves that flared in her chest. “I… manage,” she said cautiously, brushing imaginary lint off her apron.
Price’s eyes softened fractionally, though his tone remained calm, measured, commanding. “You do more than manage. I can see it. You’re scraping, running yourself ragged just to keep afloat. That’s… exhausting, isn’t it?”
Her throat went dry. She wanted to protest, to say she was fine, but he wasn’t asking — he was stating. Observing. Reading her like an open file.
“I… it can be,” she admitted finally, voice quieter.
Price leaned forward, resting his arms on the table, letting the low light catch the sharp edges of his face. “You don’t have to do it all alone,” he murmured. “Not if you don’t want to. I could… help. Take care of things you can’t fix yourself. Clothes, rent, bills — anything you need.”
Her eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t speak. The words weren’t a demand; they were an offer, and the quiet authority behind them made it impossible to dismiss.
He watched her, studying how she processed it, the subtle shift of her posture, the way her hands tightened briefly in her lap. “You’d just have to… trust me,” he added, voice dropping a fraction lower. “Give me your company. Let me handle the rest..”
The booth felt smaller. The pub noisier. And yet, instead of feeling relief, a spark of anger flared in her chest. How dare he see her like that? Judge her struggles, weigh her exhaustion, offer to “take care” of her as if she couldn’t handle it herself? She clenched her fists in her lap, jaw tight, trying to hide the flush rising in her cheeks. She didn’t need someone like him stepping in, no matter how smooth or commanding he was — and yet, she couldn’t deny the heat that threaded through her, the part of her that was unnervingly aware of how much his attention unsettled her.
Price noticed the shift instantly. The way her shoulders tensed, the quick flash of heat in her eyes, the subtle bite of her lip. It was subtle, but he was trained to read every detail — a lifetime of watching, surviving, commanding.
“You’re thinking,” he murmured, almost to himself, though his eyes never left hers. “You don’t like it, do you?”
She bristled, defensive, but couldn’t look away. “I… I don’t,” she said, voice tight, though her pulse betrayed her.
He leaned back slightly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. “No. I can see that,” he said. “But you like it too. That’s why you’re still here, isn’t it?”
She realized the weight of attention like his — and it maddened her. She didn’t want his help, didn’t want to be dependent on anyone, and yet a stubborn, irresistible part of her was drawn to it, to him, to the ease he promised, and it made her chest ache with conflicting desire and anger.
Price’s gaze softened fractionally, just enough that it felt personal, deliberate. “You won’t find anyone else like me,” he said quietly, almost conversational, almost casual. “Not in a place like this, not in the world outside these walls. People can be… harsh. Selfish. Hard. But me? I take care of what’s mine. That’s all.”
Her hands tightened in her lap. She didn’t want his help, didn’t want to owe anyone anything. And yet, the pull was undeniable. No one noticed the small details, the struggles she hid, the exhaustion she carried behind her bright smile, and offer a hand like this — protective and commanding. The frustration coiled tighter in her chest, bitter and sweet all at once.
She looked away, jaw tight, trying to convince herself she could walk out. But deep down, she knew she was tempted, dangerously, maddeningly tempted, and that leaving now might be impossible.
She stiffened, instinctively bracing herself. “I… I don’t need that,” she said, trying to sound firm.
“You’re tempted though.” he said softly, almost more to himself than to her. “Even when you’re angry. Even when you tell yourself you don’t need it.”
She flushed, twisting her fingers in her lap. “I’m fine,” she said quickly, though the heat creeping through her face betrayed her words.
Price’s smirk deepened. “You’re not,” he said, dragging his cigar, letting the smoke curl from his mouth. “And you know it. That’s why you’re still sitting here… listening. Watching. Waiting. Even when you shouldn’t.”
Her jaw tightened. She hated that he was right — hated the way her body betrayed her resistance. And yet, somewhere deep down, a part of her wanted to stay, wanted to see how far this could go.
He leaned back just slightly, letting the tension hang between them, letting her feel the pull of his attention. And as she realized how caught she was in it, frustration flared alongside a reluctant, undeniable desire.
She took a deep breath, trying to reclaim some of her dignity, some of the control she felt slipping with every glance and touch. “I… I don’t know,” she murmured, fingers fidgeting with the edge of her apron. “If you’re going to help, maybe… maybe just part-time? Just a few things. I can manage the rest myself.”
Price’s gaze didn’t waver. He let her words hang in the air for a heartbeat, then slowly, deliberately, he smirked. “Part-time?” he repeated, almost amused. “You think I’d settle for part-time when I can give you everything?”
Her eyes widened. “I—well… I mean, maybe we could—just some of it? I can’t…”
He shook his head lightly, a low chuckle escaping him. “Love, that’s the thing. You don’t have to manage any of it. None. I insist. Clothes, rent, bills, nights you want off… all of it. And yes, I’ll still expect your company.” His smirk deepened, sharp and knowing. “But that’s all. I’m offering, not negotiating.”
She flushed, frustrated and exasperated, twisting the edge of her apron in her hands. “You… you’re impossible,” she muttered, half in anger, half in disbelief.
“And yet,” he said smoothly, leaning back in his booth, “here you are. Still listening. Still staying. Still trying to bargain with me like it matters.”
She wanted to argue more, to push back, to claim some small victory — but even as she opened her mouth, she realized she couldn’t. Part of her wanted it all. Wanted the comfort, the ease, the attention. Wanted him to take care of her in a way no one else ever could.
Price’s eyes softened just slightly, catching every flicker of her struggle. “Good,” he murmured. “Then it’s settled. You’ll learn to enjoy it.”
And despite herself, she felt a surge of something she couldn’t name — frustration, yes, but also a thrill at knowing she couldn’t refuse him, no matter how hard she tried.
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