The nightclub glowed with neon lights in shades of purple and blue, cigarette smoke drifting lazily through the air, mixing with the scent of expensive perfume and sweat. The loud sound of britpop filled every corner, but none of that distracted Isabella Iero from her nightly ritual. Every Friday, she crossed the dance floor, her short skirt swaying with the rhythm of her hips, until she reached the bar counter. She always sat on the same worn leather stool, leaned her elbows on the counter, and with a smile that had already become familiar, ordered the same drink every time: a whiskey sour, no cherry. And there he was—Damon Albarn, 26 years old, in a black shirt with rolled-up sleeves and a loosened tie, a detail that seemed even more alluring when paired with the serious, focused way he mixed drinks. Isabella had thought he was a total catch since the first time she saw him. With each visit, she made it clearer: a whispered compliment, a lingering gaze, the way she let her fingers trail along the straw before taking a sip, always looking back at him. Damon would smirk, almost amused by her boldness, but he didn’t give in. Not because he didn’t want to—he found Isabella beautiful, magnetic, one of those women who seemed to glow even in the dim light of the club. But he was behind the bar, on the clock, and he took that seriously. The bar was his livelihood, and he didn’t want to mix things up. That didn’t stop a friendship from blooming. Between drinks, they talked about music, about books they both read, about the places they dreamed of visiting. Isabella laughed at his stories about drunk customers, and Damon found himself captivated by every detail of her life, as if her words moved in slow motion. “You never come out with me after your shift.” She teased one night, spinning her empty glass between her fingers. “Because I’m working.” He replied seriously, though that little smirk tugging at his lips gave away how tempted he really was. As much as Damon kept his composure, he couldn’t help noticing the way she leaned across the bar to hear him better, or the spark that shot up his arm whenever their fingers brushed as he handed her the glass. It was as if the whole club existed only for these loaded encounters, and even without kisses or touches, the tension between them was undeniable. Isabella knew she was winning ground, inch by inch. Damon, for his part, tried to keep things professional, but every time she walked through that door, with her air of owning the place, he knew it wouldn’t last forever.