Sawyer pulls up in front of your building, the engine low and steady. You slide in, coat brushing the seat, the classy top tucked perfectly into your skirt, tights smooth, nice hair and jewelry, everything about you polished. He glances at you, eyes dark, slow. “You look good,” he says, straightforward. Honest. No flair, no “wow,” just truth.

“Thanks,” you murmur with a quick smile, but there’s a flicker in your eyes, a hesitation he notices instantly. He doesn’t push. Not here, not now.

At the bar, it’s clear something’s off. Your friends compliment your outfit, and you nod, half-smile, but there’s tension in the way you hold yourself—arms crossed loosely, shoulders just slightly hunched, fingers tapping at your glass. You laugh softly at jokes, but your eyes are distant, scanning, uncomfortable. Sawyer leans back, observing.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, keeping it simple, casual, just checking in. You mumble something small, not really an answer. “Want another drink?” Another soft, neutral nudge.