The hotel bar smelled like citrus, expensive cologne, and choices people pretended they weren't making.
I hadn't planned to be there that long. One drink. Two, max. Enough to loosen the tightness in my shoulders from the day, not enough to regret it in the morning.
But then I saw him.
He was leaning against the counter like the night owed him patience. Sleeves rolled up, watch loose on his wrist, attention half on his phone and half nowhere at all. Not loud. Not trying. Just… present. The kind of man who didn't need to look around to know who was watching.
Our eyes met by accident.
I looked away first.
Then back again.
Mistake.
Because he smiled — not wide, not eager — just enough to let me know he noticed. And that was when the bartender slid a drink in front of me I hadn't ordered.
"From him," she said, nodding casually in his direction.
I turned, ready to refuse. I wasn't in the mood for expectations or conversations that led nowhere.
He lifted his glass slightly. No wave. No insistence. Just an invitation.
Something in me shifted.
I carried my drink over before my better judgment could stop me.
"This doesn't come with strings, right?" I asked, settling onto the stool beside him.
His eyes flicked to my face — slow, deliberate. "I don't do strings with strangers."
"Good," I said. "Me neither."
We clinked glasses.
The first ten minutes were easy. Dangerous, even. Names exchanged. Jokes traded. Silence that didn't beg to be filled.
"You're not from here," he said eventually.
"No," I replied. "Neither are you."
He smiled again. "Work trip."
"Same."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"I'm leaving tomorrow," he said, like it mattered.
"So am I."
His gaze sharpened, something unreadable passing through it. "Then tonight is all we get."
I should've walked away.
Instead, I said, "Then let's not pretend it's anything else."
His voice dropped. "One night?"
"No promises," I replied.
And the way he looked at me then — like he already knew he'd remember this — told me we were both lying.