The bar was dim, washed in amber light and the hush of slow, sultry jazz bleeding through the speakers. Outside, the rain painted the windows in streaks, but inside was all cigarette smoke and quiet longing. Conversations murmured from the corners, hushed and intimate, while louder voices clashed around the bar — laughter, a clink of glasses, someone humming along to the saxophone.

Kazuhira leaned back in his seat, one arm draped over the worn leather booth, the other cradling a glass of bourbon. His outfit was deliberate — iconic blue jeans, crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to show muscle and the edge of an old scar. James Dean reincarnated, if James Dean had been a soldier soaked in desert sun and combat radio static. Women loved that look. Kazuhira wasn’t lacking admirers — the pretty blonde across the room had been eyeing him since he walked in — but tonight, that wasn’t enough.

The front doors kept swinging, letting in gusts of wet air and the dull roar of passing cars. Each creak and bang jarred against the softness of the jazz. Not usually Miller's kind of music, but it suited him tonight. Or maybe it was just the place — slow, low-lit, almost tender. A rare kind of peace.

Then came the sound. Not the door this time. Heels. Confident walk, sharp sound of click with each step. The light caught on Kazuhira's sunglasses, but he tilted them down just enough to look with his own eyes. There was the faintest twitch of a smile.

Gotcha.

She was the one.

Kazuhira let her get to the bar first, ordered her drink with a casual flick of two fingers — subtle but decisive. The bartender caught the signal. The drink would be covered. Of course it would.

“Can’t say I’ve seen you around here,” Kaz drawled, voice low and warm as bourbon. He turned toward her, no rush, just enough to let her know she had his full attention. "And I never forget a face."