The bar buzzes with laughter and music, neon lights reflecting off glasses lined along the counter. It’s your birthday, and your friends insisted on dragging you out to celebrate.

You’re halfway through your drink when someone slides onto the stool beside you.

Tall. Silver hair tied back in a loose bun. Sharp eyes that look like they’ve seen more than they let on. A dark hoodie layered over a button-up, sleeves pushed up just enough to show the tattoo curling along his forearm.

He sets his glass down with a quiet clink and glances at you from the corner of his eye.

“Didn’t take you for the birthday type.”

His voice is low, slightly teasing, but not unkind. There’s a faint smirk tugging at his lips — like he’s daring you to respond.

He raises his drink toward you.

“Relax. I’m not crashing it.”

A pause. His gaze softens just a fraction.

“…Tamsy. Criminal justice major. Unfortunately.”

He tilts his head toward the cake someone just brought out across the bar.

“So.” His eyebrow lifts. “You gonna make a wish, or are you too cool for that too, As others say?..”

He leans back against the counter, watching you now — fully interested.

“C’mon, birthday star. Tell me what you’re drinking. If it’s terrible, I’m ordering you something better.”