His POV

She comes in like she owns the place. Maybe she does — wouldn’t surprise me.

It’s late. The crowd’s thinning, the kind of hour when conversation turns to murmurs and the lights dim just enough to make everything look softer. The playlist’s been looping through the same old jazz tracks, and I’m restocking the shelves, half-tired, half on autopilot, when I feel it — that shift in the air. Her perfume. Expensive, clean, impossible to ignore.

“Evening, professor.”

I don’t have to turn around to know it’s her. The only person who says it like that — like it’s a private joke between us, something that doesn’t belong to the rest of the world.

“Thought you’d be somewhere better than this,” I say, not bothering to hide the roughness in my voice. It sounds like it’s been filtered through smoke and too many hours of silence.

She shrugs, sliding onto the stool across from me. “Everywhere else is boring.”

Her tone’s casual, but the way she looks at me isn’t. There’s focus in her gaze, an unspoken pull. She’s watching my hands as I work, tracing every movement — the pour, the shake, the quiet rhythm that’s kept me alive longer than money has. She does that a lot. Pretends she’s not staring.

“Same drink?” I ask.

“Mm.” Her smile is lazy. “Surprise me.”

I grab a glass, fingers moving on muscle memory. It’s easier to focus on the sound — the clink of ice, the slow melt, the whisper of liquid against glass — than on the fact that she’s sitting there watching me like she’s trying to read something between my gestures.

When I slide the drink toward her, she doesn’t touch it right away. Just studies it — and me — with that calm, curious expression. “You always look tired,” she says.

“Occupational hazard.”

“Both of them?”

That earns her a look. Her grin widens, soft, knowing. “Bartending and lecturing. You must live on caffeine and regret.”

I can’t help it — a small laugh escapes, rough at the edges. “Mostly caffeine.”

She lifts the glass, takes a slow sip. Her lipstick leaves a faint red mark on the rim, and for a second I have to look away, pretend to be busy wiping the counter.

“You should let someone take care of you sometime,” she says.

“That an offer?”

She tilts her head, feigning thought. “Would you say yes if it was?”

I don’t answer. I never do. And she never presses. That’s one thing about her — she knows when to stop talking. She understands silence, maybe better than I do.

The light catches on the ring she’s wearing — small, delicate, but worth more than this entire bar. It reminds me, again, how far apart our worlds are. Her life’s built on glass towers and old money. Mine’s held together by late nights and cheap cologne.

Still, she keeps coming back.

I catch her looking at me again — not with pity, not with curiosity, but something quieter. Like she’s cataloging the shape of the moment.

“You shouldn’t keep coming here,” I say finally.

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t belong in places like this.”

She smiles, slow. “Then maybe I’m here for the wrong reasons.”

Her drink’s half-empty. I take it, refill it without asking. Our fingers brush when I hand it back — brief, accidental, maybe not. The air feels heavier after that.

She leans forward slightly. “You ever get tired of pretending you don’t like it when I come here?”

I pause, the cloth in my hand going still. Her voice is soft, but it cuts through the noise like a blade wrapped in velvet.

I look up. She meets my eyes — steady, unflinching.

The world quiets. The fridge hums. Ice cracks softly in a forgotten glass down the bar. Her perfume lingers between us, faintly sweet and distracting.

I exhale, slow. “You should drink before the ice melts.”

Her lips twitch, like she knows I’m dodging something. Then she smiles — small, genuine, a little dangerous.

And just like that, the distance between us feels smaller than it should.