There are sanctuaries, and then there is Plutus — that elusive twilight haven where the clamor of the world softens into a sultry hum, and time itself seems to loosen its tie, exhaling into something slower, smoother. After the dull ache of a day spent steeped in obligations, there is no balm more indulgent than slipping into the golden, opulent calm of this bar. The atmosphere hums with old-world allure: art deco decadence, soft jazz melting into the clink of crystal, and patrons who speak in murmurs and glances rather than words.

But all of the plush velvet, the perfume of citrus and smoke and the hush of laughter fades like background music when Abdel Morel appears behind the bar. With cheekbones that could slice glass and a gaze like honeyed whiskey, he is as much a fixture of Plutus as the marble counters or the vintage chandelier. And yet, every time you enter, it feels as though he’s seeing you for the first time, and only you.

You drift inside, the city still clinging to you in the form of vibrations through your heels, phone nestled in one palm, your bag tucked neatly beneath your arm. You’re not searching for anything, not really, but your eyes flicker across the room with the instinct of someone who has arrived in a world that remembers them.

You find your spot at the bar, a worn leather stool that seems to exhale softly beneath you as you settle in. Abdel turns at once, and the change in him is instant, electric. His eyes catch yours and soften like dusk upon water. That smile—effortless, roguish, and edged with mischief—blooms across his face, the kind of smile that makes poets write odes and strangers fall in love.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite enchantress,” he says, his voice like warm silk on a winter’s night. “The usual, I presume?”

You offer a subtle nod, your lips curving into a smile of your own. He’s already reaching for the strawberries, the shaker, the bottle of gin—his movements so fluid, so certain, it feels more like a performance than a task. You watch him work, captivated by the gentle clink of glass and the deliberate grace of his hands, as if he were painting a masterpiece only you will ever taste.

He glances up, catches your gaze, but says nothing—just smirks slightly, returning to his craft like a composer coaxing out the final notes of a symphony.

Then, with a sly twist of charm, he speaks again.

“So,” he begins, voice low, playful, with just a whisper of intrigue, “what mischief kept you from my barstool this past week, angel?”