The Bar, The Bass, The Boy [Flashback]

The Bar, The Bass, The Boy [Flashback]
The music hit me the second the bar doors swung open, bass pounding hard enough to rattle my bones. I blinked against the slap of neon-blue light while Reagan’s hand clamped around mine, dragging me straight through a crowd that reeked of alcohol, cheap cologne, and way too much testosterone.
“I can walk by myself,” I muttered, trying to yank free.
“I know,” he said easily, not even glancing at me. “But I like it this way. You do too.”
Thinks he knows everything.
Thinks he’s charming.
Thinks he’s God’s gift to women.
I let it slide only because I was in heels and dying to sit down. That was all. This bar was basically campus territory on weekends, and tonight it had clearly been claimed for Reagan’s team’s big win. Lights pulsed in party mode, bass shook the wood floors, and laughter blended with the shouts near the bar.
By the time we reached the lounge area, he finally let go of my hand, flashing me a sharp look. “Stay here.”
I arched a brow. “I’m not your dog, Milano.”
He just smiled, and turned away, heading toward his pack of equally sweaty, handsome, self-important friends. I watched his broad back for a beat, then sighed and scanned the crowd for familiar faces.
Naomi waved from near the DJ booth, Joy beside her already clutching a pink mocktail. I slipped into their orbit, dragging over a barstool and crossing my legs.
“Thought you weren’t coming,” Naomi said, handing me a glass.
I shrugged. “Milano showed up at my door and made a scene. You know how he is.”
Joy arched a brow. “Oh, we know.”
We all laughed.
Minutes melted into the thrum of music and chatter. I sipped my drink, my eyes drifting more than once toward Reagan, surrounded by his teammates, his laugh low and baritone, cutting through the noise like it belonged to him.
“Gretta?”
I turned, a wide smile tugging at my lips. “Shair.”
Shair Janson, my classmate from Modern Art. Tall, golden skin like melted caramel, always in an oversized hoodie and dark jeans that made him look effortlessly approachable. And I knew, thanks to Naomi, that he liked me.
“Didn’t know you’d be here tonight,” he said with a shy grin.
“Just got here,” I answered, leaning my arm casually on the table, giving him my full attention. “Big campus win, so... dragged into the celebration.”
Joy pinched my thigh,  I didn’t know why but I ignored her.
“Wow. Yeah... I only came because my friends insisted. But it’s good to see you here,” Shair said, voice almost swallowed by The Weeknd blaring overhead.
I leaned in slightly. “Got your drink yet?”
“Not yet. Want to come with?”
I nodded.
Draining the last of my glass, I slid off my stool and followed him toward the far end of the bar. Naomi shot me a look sharp enough to cut, Joy bit her lip in a very clear ‘are you serious’ expression, but I just shrugged.
What was the harm? It just Shair.
I mean, what could possibly come out of small talk and a single drink?
We ended up shoulder to shoulder at the bar. The music was too loud for real conversation, but Shair didn’t seem to mind being close, and I didn’t either. Purple-gold light washed over his shoulders as he ordered two drinks, then turned to me with his trademark smile. Friendly. Genuine. Uncomplicated.
“So... how was your week?” he asked once we found two empty stools.
I groaned. “Hell week, honestly. Urban planning model due, two papers, one presentation. I don’t even think I ate dinner on Wednesday.”
Shair laughed. “I haven’t even started my paper yet. The one for Mrs Devaney?”
“That one,” I said, pointing at him. “The root cause of my insomnia.”
“I heard she once gave a B-plus to a professor’s kid. Which means we’re all basically screwed.”
I laughed, this time completely unrestrained. “Well, at least we’re screwed together.”
The conversation flowed easily. He talked about struggling with his animation assignment, I complained about the studio printer breaking down and sending an entire floor into chaos. I felt... lighter. The only thing squeezing me was my bra strap digging into my shoulders under this stupid crop top.
“Sometimes I wonder,” Shair said after sipping his drink, “why we even picked this major. My econ friends just make charts, give a presentation, and walk away with an A.”
“Because we have taste,” I shot back without missing a beat.
He burst out laughing. “God, Gretta, you always have answers that make me wanna sit in a coffee shop with you for ten hours straight.”
I was still fighting a smile when Shair took another sip of his drink. Our conversation flowed so easily. We talked about professors who vanished mid-Zoom lecture, about the student who basically lived in the third-floor studio and became a campus legend, even about the cursed weather that melted blueprint ink like it was some kind of joke.
Every now and then I nudged his arm when I laughed, not on purpose but just out of comfort. And I told myself I was sane enough to know it was just that. Nothing more.
“So,” Shair leaned a little closer, eyes narrowing against the music that had gotten louder again, “next weekend—”
“Sorry,” someone cut him off.
I didn’t even need to turn. My body already recognized the voice and cadence. Worse, it reacted before my brain could reason.
“Place is packed tonight. I figured you’d prefer a seat in the lounge, Gee.”
Shair froze. His shoulders stiffened as his eyes flicked to the man who had just appeared, like some expensive ghost stepping out of the darkest corner of the bar.
I finally turned, schooling my face into neutrality.
Reagan stood there with one hand shoved in his pocket, his varsity jacket slung over his shoulder, and that gray T-shirt stretched just enough to remind everyone he knew exactly what his body looked like. He wasn’t looking at Shair. His eyes were locked on me. Unblinking.
“Reagan,” I said flatly. “Are you lost?”
“I’m wherever you are,” he answered, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “You know that.”
Shair rose slowly, his voice polite but stiff. “I’ll get back to my friends. Bye, Gretta.”
“Bye, Shair,” I replied, holding back a smile that might have looked too apologetic.
Shair disappeared into the crowd, and I knew I should say something. But for a few seconds I just turned back to my half-empty drink and took a slow sip.
“Was that really necessary?” I asked at last, still refusing to look at him.
“Yeah.” His voice was closer now. I could feel the heat of him, smell that damn cologne. “Who is he? What he’s done to you?”
“He’s just a friend,” I added before he even asked. “Like you.”
“I’m not your friend.”
I turned to him and rolled my eyes. “Oh, tell me about it.”
He shrugged, dropping into the stool Shair had just vacated. He propped his elbows on the bar and studied me like I was the only thing worth noticing tonight.
“Why do you always show up the moment I’m finally… calm?”
He leaned in, his shoulder brushing mine, voice dropping an octave. “Because I hate calm.”
I hide the smile that nearly slipped. “If you came here to stir things up, congrats. Mission accomplished.”
“No.” He rested his chin lazily on his hand. “I came because you looked way too happy with someone who wasn’t me. And that… really pissed me off.”
I glared at him.
He didn’t blink.
“Reagan…”
“Gretta.”