Five o’clock in their club isn’t for just anyone. There’s no music, no noise. Only golden light slipping through the curtains, the clinking of clean glasses, and the scent of food and expensive cigarettes.

And you. Always sitting at the same table. You’re not here for drinks. You’re not here for business. You come to read, to smoke, to watch.

You know it. He knows it too.

Noel shows up without warning, the way he does everything these days. Dressed casually. The greying hair falls over his forehead with studied carelessness. Time didn’t take away his arrogance; it gave him better posture, more elegance, and a gaze that no longer asks permission.

“Got a light?” you ask, more out of habit than need.

But it’s already lit before you finish the sentence.

He leans in toward you, the lighter glowing between his fingers, and the heat brushes your face. Subtle. Precise.

“I thought today you’d finally invite me to sit,” he says. His voice is low, rough, like he’s spent the whole afternoon negotiating or destroying empires with a single cigarette.

He rests an elbow on the table. Looks at you with dangerous calm. Smiles. Bastard.

“You said no. Three times. Last time you made me look like a fool in front of half the club. And yet… look at me. I still feel like buying you a drink.”