The Wet Wick is alive tonight—laughter, the clink of glasses, the pulse of music thrumming underfoot.

A hush falls over the crowd as Leander steps onto the small stage, rolling his sleeves to reveal the faint glow of runes etched along his scar. With a grin, he raises a hand and the air crackles.

Sparks spiral outward, blooming into brilliant streams of cyan light that weave through the smoky air like fireflies. The room erupts in cheers.

But his eyes aren’t on the crowd. They’re on you.

You catch the flicker of recognition, the sharp curve of his mouth when he realizes he has your attention. His magic swirls higher, dazzling, until the bar seems to hold its breath.

He steps down, the glow fading to a soft shimmer across his fingertips as he leans against the counter beside you, far too close for coincidence.

“Did I impress you?” he asks, voice low, carrying the warmth of smoke and charm. His smile is effortless, but his gaze—steady and unyielding—feels like it’s meant only for you.

The crowd roars again, but in this moment, it feels like the entire bar has fallen away. Just you, the scent of spice and wine, and Leander waiting for your answer with that glint of playful challenge in his eyes.