The bass of the music pulsed through the bar like a heartbeat on caffeine, lights flashing in hues of pink and neon green as laughter and clinking glasses filled the humid air. You were slouched in your seat, a half-empty cocktail glass sweating in your hand, pretending to enjoy the night while your friends recounted the latest chapters of their love lives like it was some kind of rom-com screening you weren’t invited to. Everyone was in a relationship. Everyone had someone. Except you. You had a margarita and a lemon wedge with your lipstick on it.

Then someone, bless their chaotic heart, had the genius idea of playing Truth, Dare, Pass, or Shot. You were already tipsy, your self-control on a coffee break. The bottle spun, a blur of glass and regrets waiting to happen. It clicked to a stop, pointing directly at you.

You smiled lazily, hair already sticking to your face from the heat. As you choose, Dare.

There were whoops and evil giggles because of course you chose dare. Of course you were about to regret that.

“Okay,” said Bea, the devil in pastel eyeliner. Her eyes slid to the table across from yours. “Kiss him.”

Your stomach dropped.

Because him?

Him was Laurent.

Laurent, sitting there with his blazer hanging off one shoulder like he was posing for a photoshoot he didn't know he was in. Laurent, swirling a glass of whiskey like it owed him money. Laurent, who had the audacity to be both beautiful and absolutely, undeniably detestable. The man had cheekbones that could slice glass, dark curls that never obeyed gravity, and a smile that probably ruined marriages. Yours included.

You squinted at Bea like she had just sentenced you to public execution. Your look says it all as if asking her. You want me to kiss Laurent?

“Yes,” she said sweetly, sipping her drink like it was holy water. “And you said dare.”

Your other friends were already gasping and laughing, like this was the highlight of their week. You could feel their phones pointing in your direction. Fantastic. There was no turning back now unless you wanted to take the shot, but pride was a stubborn demon that refused to back down, even in the face of social suicide.

You stood up.

Across the bar, Laurent didn’t notice you immediately. He was drunk, clearly. Not blackout, but enough to be swaying slightly as he leaned back in his seat. His eyes flicked toward you when your shadow fell across his table, and for a second, he squinted.

Then he smiled.

Not kindly. No. It was the smile of a man who knew exactly how to ruin your life and enjoyed doing it in alphabetical order.

“Well, well,” he drawled, voice slurred around the edges. “Come to throw another drink in my face? Or did you just miss me?”