Alli – The First Spark

The first time Alli saw Johnny, it was a slow Friday night in early spring. The bar had been quieter than usual, the jukebox playing some twangy old heartbreak song while a few old timers nursed beers and swapped fishing lies like religion. She’d only been working at The Hollow for two weeks—just long enough to stop flinching every time someone slapped a tip on the counter a little too hard.

It was supposed to be a simple job. Something for weekends. Something to get her out of the house after graduation without having to think too hard about her future, or how empty everything had felt since the cap and gown came off and everyone else started making plans.

She hadn't expected him.

He’d walked in like he owned the place. Confident but quiet. A man who didn’t have to be loud to be noticed. Broad shoulders, dark shirt tight against his chest, his jeans stained with grease like he’d come straight from under a car and didn’t bother changing. A mechanic, she’d learn later. Ran his own shop just outside of town. The kind of man who worked with his hands, smelled like oil and steel, and probably knew how to break down more than just engines.

She remembered the way her hand stilled on the glass she was drying. The way her chest had clenched when his blue eyes locked on hers from across the bar.

It wasn’t love at first sight. That would’ve been too simple.

It was something darker. Something slower. Like the steady strike of a match, burning hotter the longer it stayed lit.

He sat down on the end stool. Didn’t ask for a menu. Didn’t say a word until she walked over and asked what he wanted.

“Whiskey,” he’d said. “Neat.”

His voice was smooth. Low. Like gravel soaked in molasses. It took her a second to process the words.

When she set the glass down in front of him, he didn’t thank her. He didn’t look away either. He just stared at her for a moment too long. Like he was trying to figure out if she was real.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Alli.”

He took a sip. “You new?”

She nodded. “Couple weeks.”

He nodded too. “You’ll last.”

It was the way he said it—flat, certain, like it wasn’t a compliment so much as a warning. Like he saw something in her that even she hadn’t figured out yet.

He didn’t stay long that first night. Maybe an hour. Maybe less. But he came back the next weekend. Same time. Same stool. Same drink.

And every time he did, Alli felt it again—that strange tightening in her chest, that awareness of him in the room like gravity shifted when he was near.

She tried to ignore it.

She wasn’t stupid. She saw the way he moved. The kind of man who kept his hands to himself but made you wish he wouldn’t. The kind of man women whispered about after he left, glancing at each other like they’d all imagined the same things.

It didn’t take long before she heard the rumors.

Johnny Warren. Grease-stained heartbreaker. Keeps to himself. Doesn’t date. Doesn’t commit. Messed around with Layla even though she’s married—and somehow walked away without a scratch.

Alli told herself she didn’t care. That it didn’t matter. That she’d be smart enough to stay out of his orbit.

But week after week, he kept showing up. And slowly, without meaning to, she started waiting for him.

She’d feel it when he walked in. Her heart would flutter in a way that made her hate herself a little. She’d glance down the bar, pretend she wasn’t watching when he picked a stool, when he rolled up his sleeves, when he ran a hand through that thick, dark hair like he was frustrated with the world and didn’t want to admit it.

They talked—sometimes. Never much. But he’d ask how her week was. He’d notice when she wore something different. He’d tilt his head and study her like she was more interesting than anything else in the room.

And that scared her.

Because she liked it.

Liked how his eyes felt on her. Liked the way her name sounded when he said it. Liked that she could make him smirk, even when he looked like he hadn’t smiled all day.

And God help her, she liked the way her body reacted when he stood too close. Like every inch of her skin suddenly knew how to crave.

She didn’t tell her friends about him. Didn’t mention him to her mom. Kept it all to herself like a secret she was half-ashamed to have.

Because what was she supposed to say?

That she was falling—slowly, stupidly—for a man who looked like sin and smelled like danger?

That she couldn’t stop wondering what it would feel like if he touched her?

That she was starting to dream about him?

The dreams were the worst. And the best.

They weren’t always sexual—though some were hot enough to wake her up panting with her sheets twisted around her legs. Most were softer. Intimate. Quiet moments that never happened. Him brushing hair from her face. Him standing behind her at the sink, arms wrapped around her waist. Him whispering her name like it meant something.

And in every dream, he looked at her like she was the only thing left in the world worth saving.

She knew it was dangerous. Knew he wasn’t the kind of man you dated. Knew he wasn’t even really available, no matter how many people insisted it was over between him and Layla.

But knowing didn’t stop her from wanting.

And now—tonight—he’d looked at her differently.

Like maybe he wanted her too.

And that? That scared her more than anything.

Because if Johnny ever touched her—if he ever let himself want her—she knew she’d fall so fast she wouldn’t even try to catch herself.

And when she hit the ground?

She wasn’t sure she’d survive it.