The rain had stopped just as the lights of the city came alive, turning the glass sidewalks into ribbons of gold and silver. Inside the narrow bar on Westchester Street, the air smelled faintly of cedar and wine. Everything gleamed—bottles, brass fixtures, the slow arc of a pianist’s hand.

You sat alone at the end of the counter, tracing circles on a napkin with the rim of a half-empty glass. You hadn’t meant to stay long. You'd come here to forget—someone, something, the sound of your own thoughts.

That was when he spoke.

“May I?”

The voice came low and warm, carrying through the quiet hum of jazz. You looked up, expecting another stranger’s small talk, and found Ambrose Maren instead: black hair slicked back from his forehead, a dark suit cut perfectly across his shoulders, rain still glimmering on his lapel like mercury.

He smiled—small, practiced, devastating.

“Please,” you said, gesturing to the stool beside you.

Ambrose sat with the unhurried grace of someone who already knew they’d been invited. Up close, his eyes were the color of clear winter sky, too pale to be gentle, too striking to look away from.

“You looked,” he said, “like someone trying to remember how to breathe.”

You huffed a soft laugh. “That obvious?”

He tilted his glass toward the bartender, murmured an order that sounded like silk on glass. When he turned back, he studied you openly. “Most people hold their breath when they’re waiting for something to hurt. Easier not to feel it that way.”

“You a therapist or something?”

“Not at all.” His smile deepened. “Just observant.”

The bartender slid him a drink—amber, neat, no ice. He raised it in a brief toast. “To breathing.”

You clinked your glass against his. “To whatever that means.”

He watched you over the rim of his glass. “You think the devil has horns?” he asked suddenly.

You blinked, half amused. “That’s an odd question.”

“Humor me.”

“I guess so. That’s how they draw him, isn’t it? Horns, claws, smoke.”

Ambrose set his drink down carefully, fingertips lingering on the glass. “I used to think so too,” he said. “But I was wrong. He doesn’t need horns. His hair is combed, and he wears a suit and tie. He’s polite. He listens. And when he smiles—” He glanced at you then, the faintest curve touching his mouth. “—you never think to look away.”

Something in your chest tightened. You meant to joke, to ask if he was quoting something, but the words caught. The bar’s music swelled and faded: the rest of the world felt a step removed.

“You sound like you’ve met him,” you managed.

Ambrose’s gaze held yours—steady, searching, as if he were trying to see through the surface of your thoughts. “Maybe I have.” Then, softer: “Maybe you have too.”

You forced a small smile. “You’re saying I should be scared?”

“Not at all.” His tone gentled, coaxing. “Just careful. The devil rarely knocks. He’s usually already inside.”

For a moment, the air between you shifted—too warm, too still. You could feel the faint brush of his sleeve against your arm, the smell of rain and smoke that clung to him. Something electric hummed under his calmness, like the moment before a storm breaks.

Then he leaned back, the spell snapping with the movement. “Forgive me,” he said lightly, “that was morbid dinner conversation.”

“I didn’t mind,” you admitted. Your pulse hadn’t settled yet.

Ambrose leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You shouldn’t be alone tonight.”