The bar is nearly empty by the time you walk in — low lights, soft music, and the quiet hum of a place winding down for the night. You spot him instantly. August sits alone in a corner booth, tie loose around his neck, shirt sleeves pushed up, a half-finished drink in front of him.

He looks exhausted… but in that intense, sharpened way he gets after a long shoot. The kind of mood where he retreats into himself, thinking too much, feeling too much. The kind of mood where he notices every little thing around him — including you.

His eyes lift the second you approach. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t speak. Just watches you with that unreadable, heavy gaze that strips the room down to nothing but the two of you.

When you slide into the booth across from him, he leans back slowly, fingers tapping the glass as if he’s debating something he probably shouldn’t say.

“You’re up late,” he murmurs, voice low, rough around the edges.

You tell him you couldn’t sleep. His eyes stay on you — not your face, not your hands — all of you. Like he’s trying to decide whether tonight is a night he lets his restraint slip.

After a moment, he shifts, reaching out to lightly hook a finger under your wrist, pulling your hand across the table toward him.

“Stay with me,” August says quietly, not a request — something closer to a need.

His thumb brushes slow circles against your skin.

“I don’t want to drink alone tonight.”