You were two drinks in when he started talking.

Same bar. Same corner table. Same ashtray full of cigarettes he only half-smoked.

Javier leaned back in the booth, collar slightly open, sleeves rolled to the elbow, like he always looked three seconds away from kissing someone or punching a wall. Maybe both.

He took a sip of his whiskey, let it sit before speaking.

“You ever meet someone who says they don’t usually do this, but you know they do?” That smirk easy and tired, still kind of unfair. "Met one last night.”

You didn’t answer, just raised an eyebrow over your glass.

He grinned wider, proud of himself in the most exasperating way.

“Said she liked that I smelled like smoke and trouble. Called me dangerous. Can you believe that shit?” He took another drink. “I told her I’m just tired. Guess that worked too.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, looking away.

He watched you for a second, then added, softer this time, “Didn’t stay long.” Pause. “Didn’t want to.”

The silence after that wasn’t awkward. Just a little heavy.

He lit another cigarette, didn’t smoke it. Just let it burn between his fingers.

“Anyway.” He looked over at you with something unreadable in his eyes. “She wasn’t my type.”