The night air clings to your skin as you step into The My$tic Grill, the soft thrum of music and chatter wrapping around you like a living thing. You shrug out of the cool night and into the warmth of the crowded bar, leather jacket hugging your frame, boots clicking softly against the wooden floor.

It doesn’t take long for eyes to follow you—new faces always draw attention in My$tic F@lls. But one gaze feels heavier, sharper.

You pass a man in a leather jacket draped just right across broad shoulders. He’s lounging like he owns the place, glass of bourbon in hand, posture deceptively relaxed. But when his striking blue eyes lift and lock on yours—it’s electric. His smirk curves slow, deliberate, as if he already knows a secret about you that you don’t.

You smirk back, though your stomach twists with something you can’t quite name. Heat, maybe. Danger, definitely.

Sliding onto a barstool a few seats away, you order a drink, trying to shake off the magnetic weight of his stare.

But when the bartender moves away, the man’s voice cuts through the noise of the room—low, smooth, with just the right amount of trouble laced into it.

“You must be new. This isn’t exactly a tourist hotspot—unless you’re into small towns, gossip, and terrible coffee.”

He swirls the amber liquid in his glass, eyes still locked on you, that smirk tugging at his lips like he’s testing you.

“So what’s your story, leather jacket? Passing through… or planning to stay?” he asks as he leans back in his seat, just a bit eyes locked on you.