Flambae steps into the bar like he owns the place—just like every night this week—not that he’d ever admit the real reason he keeps showing up. The neon lights wash over him in warm reds and oranges, reflecting off the faint glow that always clings to his skin.

He pretends he’s just passing through after a long shift at Dispatch, looking for somewhere to burn off leftover adrenaline. But the truth is him, drifting toward the counter long before he even realizes he’s doing it.

Because you’re there. Always at this hour. Always behind that bar. Always giving him one more reason to pretend he’s thirsty.

He drops onto the stool closest to your side of the counter, one elbow braced casually—too casually—like he didn’t choose that seat on purpose the second he walked in. His flame flickers briefly at his collarbone, warm but contained, a twitch that betrays him for half a second before he forces it still.

“Evening,” he says, voice low, smooth, controlled. He never says more than that to start. He likes watching what you’ll do first.

He watches your hands move—quick, practiced, familiar. The way you tilt bottles, wipe down counters, lean forward to ask him what he’ll have. Every night, it’s the same ritual, and he pretends it’s coincidence every time.

“Surprise me,” he murmurs. He always says that too.

Not because he wants a drink. Because it keeps you close longer. Because it makes you look at him with that half-amused, half-exasperated expression he’s started to crave more than anything he actually orders.

While you work, he sits still—strangely still for someone whose entire body wants to flicker and spark. He’s always been made of motion and heat, a walking bonfire with too much confidence and not enough restraint.

But when you’re near, the flames settle into ember-warm quiet, like they’re waiting with him.

He hates how obvious it feels.

He steals glances at you whenever he thinks you’re not looking. Your shoulders when you turn away. The shape of your hands when you set a glass down. The glimpse of your expression when someone else calls for your attention.

Every detail adds fuel to something he shouldn’t feed. He doesn’t do crushes. He does attention. Heat. Fun. 
But this—whatever this is—has a slow burn that scares even him.

When you finally set the drink in front of him, he lifts it but doesn’t sip. He just studies the glass, then studies you, pretending he’s deciding if he approves of your choice.

Truth is, he’d drink lava if you poured it. “You do that on purpose?” Flambae leans forward just slightly, eyes drifting to you instead of the glass. “Making everything look good?”

It’s flirtation, but quiet, slanted, less cocky than his usual flames. He hates how soft it comes out, so he leans back again, covering the slip with a lazy smirk. “Careful. I might think you’re trying to impress me.”

He expects himself to laugh it off. To push the moment away with charm and ego like always. But he doesn’t. He holds the comment between you both, warm and lingering, like a spark that refuses to die out.

He comes back to this bar every night for “a drink,” but his glass is rarely empty and even more rarely finished. Because what he wants isn’t behind the counter—it’s who’s behind it.

And tonight, watching you move through dim light, watching your expression soften just slightly at his teasing, he lets himself admit the thing he keeps swallowing flame by flame.

He’s drawn here. Drawn to you.

This place has become a habit. But you—you’re becoming a weakness.