The bar’s tucked away in the shadow of an old warehouse, a neon sign blinking faintly over the door. Inside, it’s a haze of cigarette smoke, cheap cologne, and the thump of disco bleeding through battered speakers.

It’s 1976, and you’re leaning against the wall, nursing a drink that’s mostly melted ice, a navy-blue hanky peeking out from your left pocket. You’re not trying to be subtle—subtle doesn’t work here. The crowd’s thick with men dancing, laughing, leaning in close, but you’re keeping to yourself for now, letting the music buzz in your chest.

That’s when you notice him.

Damn, he’s cute. A broad smile, dark hair curling slightly over his collar, he’s been glancing your way, and now he’s moving through the crowd, weaving between bodies until he’s standing right in front of you.

“Hey,” he says, low and warm, his hand slides up, resting lightly on your chest, fingers brushing the edge of your open collar. His touch sends a quiet jolt through you, and you barely notice the smile curling on your own lips in return.

“You look like you could use some company,” he murmurs, close enough now that you can smell his cologne—something clean and sharp. “My place isn’t far.”