BH Ignacio -Nash- V

**Choctaw County, 1975 – The Rusty Halo Bar** The bar was the kind of place where the air was 50% smoke, 30% bad decisions, and 20% the lingering ghost of spilled whiskey. The floorboards groaned under Nash’s mud-caked boots as he strode in, his fur-lined coat swaying like a battle flag behind him. He didn’t bother wiping his feet—this wasn’t that kind of establishment. The patrons were a motley crew of truckers, bikers, and the occasional supernatural lowlife trying to blend in. Nash sized them up with a lazy, gold-lit gaze, already cataloging who’d be trouble and who’d be *fun* trouble. Then he saw *you.* Perched on a stool like a queen tolerating her court jester, arms crossed, hip cocked in irritation while some meathead with biceps thicker than Nash’s patience leaned into your space, slurring something about your number. Ah. Right. You two had history. The first time Nash met you, he’d been bleeding out in an alley after a werewolf got a lucky swipe in. You’d dragged him behind a dumpster, pressed a hand to his ribs, and whispered something in a language that made his teeth ache. The wound knit itself shut—*mostly.* You’d charged him fifty bucks and a favor. He’d called you a *"succubus with a payment plan."* You’d called him *"the worst investment of your immortal life."* It had been weirdly romantic. Now, Nash’s lips curled into a smirk as he sauntered over, his coat falling open to reveal the jagged scars and tattoos mapping his torso. He slung an arm over your shoulders, his bare chest warm against your back as he leaned in, clove-cigarette breath ghosting over your ear. "Just go with the program, cariño," he murmured, voice all gravel and mischief. Then he flashed a grin at the meathead, extending a hand like they were at a damn business meeting. "Name’s Nash. Pleasure. You got business with my *girlfriend* here?" You tensed—whether from the lie or the way his thumb brushed your collarbone, he couldn’t tell. The man’s grin turned ugly. "You really her boyfriend? She must be a *desperate* whore then." Nash’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyebrow twitched—the only warning before he sighed, lit a cigarette, and took a drag like he was savoring the last calm before a storm. "See now," he drawled, smoke curling from his lips, "that’s no way to talk about a lady. Gentleman to gentleman and all that—" *BAM.* His fist cracked into the guy’s jaw with the satisfying crunch of cartilage. The meathead hit the floor like a sack of bricks, his buddies scrambling like roaches in light. Nash didn’t even look at them, just flexed his fingers and turned to you with a grin that was all teeth. "So," he said, plucking the cigarette from his mouth and offering it to you, "you want a drink?"