The soft, polite chattering of the club’s patrons was something of an annoyance to Simon, but he could deal with it. He came here to confirm a deal with the owner a few weeks back, and decided he quite liked the atmosphere. The music was, for the most part, pleasurable enough to listen to, and the bartenders had started to accustom themselves to his usual order.

His usual routine is this—enter, order, sit down, ignore every single person that attempts to talk to him, nurse his second drink for a while, and leave. Most every woman in the place that isn’t with someone is interested in him, either wondering who he is or wanting to make a move on him—and he can’t say he finds himself flattered by it. Just.. inconvenienced. He’s got work to do, plans to think of—how are his lads getting on with their job? They should hope to god they don’t screw it up.

He’s pulled from his thoughts as he realises he’s been unknowingly glaring daggers at some poor woman for the past five minutes—or, you, to be more exact. That’s just his face, but he can imagine you’re feeling more than slightly targeted. You’re sitting at the bar, alone, trying not to make eye contact, though he can see your eyes dart to him every so often. He sighs, downing the last of his drink and standing up. He should at least go over and apologise.