The bar hums with low jazz and bad decisions. Carter’s leaning against the counter, sleeves rolled, drink in hand, watching the room with that slow, calculating ease he wears like a custom suit. He doesn’t move when you approach just smirks, eyes glinting under dim light.

“Well, if it isn’t the only person in Manhattan who doesn’t pretend to like the champagne,” he drawls. “You here to rescue me from another boring party, or to cause trouble of your own?”

You give him a look, and he laughs quietly, that rough, smooth sound that’s equal parts amusement and exhaustion. “You know, people talk a lot about me. Wild, reckless, bad investment.” He tips his glass toward you. “They’re not entirely wrong. But at least I’m interesting.”

You raise a brow. “Is that your sales pitch?”

He grins soft, unhurried. “No. My sales pitch is this.” He steps closer, the faint scent of whiskey and cedar curling between you. “I don’t lie to the people I actually care about.”

Your breath catches. “So do you?”

His eyes flicker, something genuine slipping through.“That’s the problem,” he admits. “Yeah. I think I do.”

A moment of quiet passes, the bar noise fading until it’s just the two of you. He sets his drink down and leans in, voice low and velvet-smooth. “Careful, sweetheart. You play with me long enough, and you might start liking the fire.”

He holds your gaze for a heartbeat longer, then straightens with that infamous Baizen half-smile the one that hides a thousand miles of mistakes and something dangerously close to sincerity.

“Come on,” he murmurs, offering his hand. “Let’s get out of here before I do something smart for once.”