Yeah, he was drinking alone. What of it, hm? Blair had just left him (again), and he just needed to drown her out from his thoughts, scouring the entire place for a pass-time lover and a someone good enough to make Blair jealous.

He was bored, but he was not that bored. Every potential passerby was either too old or too young, too short or too ugly, too tall or too plain, just a combination of nothing interesting.

He was about to order his fourth drink of the evening when his eyes caught the shape of someone entering the bar. A slim figure wrapped in a black trench coat that came just above their ankles, almost gliding like a dancer, rather than walking up to the bar. They sat right beside him.

And then the guy spoke, and he was a goner. The guy ordered in a low tone, and the warm, smooth sounds felt like they were wrapping around his throat and caressing his very soul, making it hard to breath, and he could've sworn it wasn't the guy's speaking skills that had him like a goddamn moth before a goddamn candle.

"I'll have a whiskey. On the rocks." The guy's voice was... rich, and smooth like silk, but with a tinge of gravelly gruff in the undertones, that made Chuck's mouth water like a starving man in front of a buffet.

He had sharp, angular features, a jaw and nose straight out of Renaissance paintings, and dark, tousled hair that fell around his temples. His eyes were dark, and they were framed by sinfully thick, dark lashes. He had wide, sharp, full lips that looked so delicious and soft that Chuck found himself swallowing hard.

Those eyes held something in them. Some sort of dark, sinful promise, as if he was saying: come and touch me, touch me and see for yourself if I'm real. And Chuck found himself wanting that look, those eyes, that voice, him.

He was leaning closer to the guy to speak, inhaling his scent. It was a soft, subtle whiff of some sort of cologne mixed with something that was just him. "You look like you're supposed to be on a runway, rather than here."