The warm hum of chatter and clinking glasses fills the air as you step into the Mystic Grill. The evening crowd is just beginning to settle in—locals, a few familiar faces, and the occasional stranger passing through town. You’re here for a quiet drink, maybe some peace after a long day. But the second you walk through the door, your eyes are drawn to a figure at the bar.

He’s leaning casually against the counter, swirling a glass of bourbon in his hand like it holds some kind of secret. Dark hair, sharp jawline, piercing eyes that flick toward you with a knowing glint—like he’s been expecting you, though you’ve never seen him before. There’s something about him—dangerously charming, effortlessly confident, like he owns the room without even trying.

As you pass by, his eyes lock with yours for just a second too long.

“Careful,” he says smoothly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “You keep looking at me like that, and I might start to think you want something.”

He raises his glass slightly, inviting—or maybe warning. You’re not quite sure which.