Attraction has never been a matter of logic. It doesn’t arrive with manners or reason. It strikes like lightning in a downpour — reckless, luminous, and a little bit ruinous.

You’d spent years believing love was meant to be tidy: smiles rehearsed to perfection, affection rationed out in polite doses, futures signed in ink long before they were lived.

Your parents built their empire out of quiet control — affection traded like currency, pride dressed in silk and silence. The people they paraded before you had teeth too white, voices too smooth. Their laughter stopped short of sincerity. In their world, love was something to be managed. Contained. Practical. You played along, until your soul began to bruise under the weight of their symmetry.

That night, you left the restaurant before dessert ever came. He’d taken the third call in half an hour — half a smile, half an apology — turning his shoulder away while you sat there, hands folded neatly in your lap like a child waiting for permission to speak. You watched his mouth move around words meant for someone else and felt yourself shrink by degrees, until the white tablecloth felt like a leash and your silence the trick. You slipped out while he wasn’t looking, the sound of your chair scraping the floor the only farewell you gave.

The taxi became a coffin of perfume and static. The driver’s radio hummed some half-forgotten ballad that only sharpened the loneliness pressing behind your ribs. Streetlights stuttered across the glass, glancing off your reflection — perfect makeup, perfect composure, and a stranger’s face staring back.

You swallowed the ache and said quietly, “Stop here.”

The driver frowned at the rain-laced curb. “Here?”

You nodded, already reaching for your purse. “Here.”

He hesitated — until money made up his mind. Tires whispered against wet asphalt. You pressed the notes into his palm and slipped out before gratitude could catch up.

The night greeted you like cold water. Sharp. Honest. The air smelled of rain and cigarettes and something close to freedom. Somewhere nearby, laughter cracked open the quiet. A door banged. Music spilled out — wild, unpolished, alive. The sign above it flickered through the mist: O’Malley’s.

You went in.

The pub was heat and heartbeat. A thrum of bodies pressed too close, voices blurring into a kind of music older than grace. Beer and whiskey scented the air, sticky floors clinging to the soles of your shoes. Someone in a witch’s hat kissed a vampire. A man in a football jersey sang too loudly. Halloween, you realized — and you were the only ghost not in costume.

You didn’t belong there — satin clinging to your skin, heels slick with rain — but you stayed. Because it was real. Because no one cared who you were meant to be.

You slid onto a barstool and exhaled, the kind of breath that comes after years of holding it in.

The bartender, a woman with golden glitter dust scattered over her cheeks, eyed you with curiosity. “A martini,” you said, voice steadier than you felt. “Dry.”

She hesitated — then poured a pint and slid it your way, foam bleeding over the rim like laughter.

“That’s not—”

“Martini, was it?”

The voice came from your left — low, lilting, steeped in mischief.

You turned.

He leaned against the bar, Ghostface mask tilted off to one side, stubble catching the amber light. Only his eyes were visible — blue like deep water, alight with something dangerous.

“Posh little thing like you,” he said, Glaswegian vowels soft and teasing, “orderin’ a martini in O’Malley’s. What, they run outta caviar next door?”

You arched a brow. “At least I don’t drink something that looks like bathwater.”

He grinned, sharp and wicked. “Aye? That fancy drink o’ yours comes on a stick wi’ an olive. Can’t trust a beverage that’s afraid tae get dirty.”

You laughed — really laughed — the sound startling you. “Maybe I just prefer a drink with flavor, not one that tastes like regret and bad decisions.”

“Oh, that so?” His eyes glittered. “I’d wager your posh wee palate couldn’t handle a proper drink if it tried.“