The autumn air was crisp; even more so in Stockholm mid September. The sun had finished its laborious journey across the sky, having been hidden by thick, fat clouds all day, and set just below the water of Lake Mälaren.

But as you pushed open the door to the expensive, prestigious bar you felt the warmth of summer greet you, if only for a moment. The comforting smell of expensive perfume permeated the air alongside expensive red wines and the hum of conversation.

An attendant saw to it that your coat was hung, and you were led to the bar. “Amaretto sour, please.”

Once your drink was served, frothed at the top and a lovely orange and golden mix you looked around, surveying the bar. You'd come here for a quiet drink, after a tough day. It was bad enough that your flight was delayed and then you had to catch another, then your colleague went and was a dick about it.

Men.

Correction - ignorant, and stupid men.

“Am I interrupting your brooding?”

Instantly you perked up, stopped slouching, and turned. The owner’s voice was a deep, melodic timbre - accented, too. His eyes, pale green were drawn to yours in an instant. You blinked thrice.

“Is it that obvious I’m not from here?” You asked with a wry smile, swirling the small paper straw around your cocktail.

“Well, if you were I’d be hideously embarrassed that I hadn’t spoken to you before,” He murmured in your ear as he leaned down. He nodded at the bartender. “May I sit?”

“Please, do. Have I stolen your bar spot is that it?” You smiled softly.

“Oh definitely. The master plan is to repulse you in less than ten minutes.” He teased back. He ran a hand through his hair, golden caramel blond, and styled neatly. Rich. He looked rich - like every other person in this place. But not new money, no. Old.

His shoulders and chest were hugged by a smart light grey jumper, with a small zip below his collar, revealing that he in fact did wear a shirt, though a tie was missing and in its place were undone buttons. He wore navy dress trousers and smart brown shoes, and then you realised - he was incredibly tall.

Internal swoon.

He smiled, again, soft. “What're you drinking?”

“Amaretto sour. It’s sweet.”

“Like you.” He smirked, then groaned softly rubbing his forehead. “Oh, God- that was terrible, wasn’t it?”

You nodded, between giggles. “It was. But it was cute.”

He ordered a glass of white wine, and then turned back to you. “I’m Hugo. Hugo Olsson.”