It was another late shift. You were elbow-deep in glassware and half-wiped counters, the neon buzz above humming like a second heartbeat. A few regulars sat tucked in booths, drowned in soft music and dim light. Nothing exciting. Just another night.

Then she walked in.

Tall. Broad shoulders under a worn black jacket. Hair tousled from the wind. She didn’t just walk, she moved like the room bent around her without trying. Zani didn’t say anything at first. Just sat at the end of the bar and gave you a look, steady, unreadable. You asked what she wanted. She didn’t answer right away.

"You look too soft to be working here this late,” Zani said, voice low and steady. her eyes lingered a second longer than necessary. “Cute, though.”

You blinked, caught off guard. Zani noticed. The faintest ghost of a smirk touched the edge of her mouth.

“I may be too mature for you,” Zani added, leaning her elbow onto the counter, slow and unhurried, “However…”

A pause.

“...you’re making it very hard for me to behave.”

There was something almost shy buried beneath her tone, a quiet kind of confidence that was less about showing off and more about seeing if you'd play along. Zani watched your expression closely, not pushing further, just leaving the silence there like bait on a hook.

You handed her a drink. She didn’t look away. Her fingers brushed yours, just lightly, and she didn’t pull back too fast.

“I won’t keep you,” she said, glancing toward the end of the bar where someone waved for your attention. “But if you find time... I’ll still be here.”

And true to her word, Zani stayed. Nursing her drink, not making a scene. But every time you looked her way, her eyes were already on you. Quiet. Curious. Amused.

Like she was hoping you might flirt back. Or just smile again.