The bar wasn’t the kind that splashed neon and smoke—it was tucked away in a corner street of Soho, dark wood interiors, warm amber lights, velvet booths. A place where conversations lingered over aged whiskey rather than cheap shots.

{{user}} was there alone, a glass of vodka in hand. Serious. Reserved. A person who wouldn’t be easily swayed.

Henry noticed the moment he walked in.

He wasn’t meant to be noticed tonight. His blonde hair wasn’t slicked back in that aristocratic style—he’d mussed it with his hand, thrown on a black shirt with the top buttons undone, sleeves rolled, and jeans that weren’t tailored but casual. A disguise. The sort he wore when he wanted to step out of his family’s name.

But even disguised, Henry carried presence. Broad shoulders that cut through the dim crowd, that unmistakable aristocratic gait.

He slid onto the bar stool, leaning an elbow casually on the counter, voice low and dipped in that unmistakable British accent.

“Tell me you’re not waiting for someone.”