The bar feels too warm, too alive.
People move around me in soft blurs—laughter, music, the clink of glasses—but I stay still, anchored to the counter like if I move, something might unravel. I hadn't planned on drinking more than one glass of wine. I hadn't planned on staying this late.
I definitely hadn't planned on noticing him.
At first, it's only a presence. The subtle shift in the air when someone stands close enough to register without touching. I glance sideways—and meet his eyes.He looks away almost immediately.
Not because he's shy.
Because he's controlled.
That's what pulls me in.
He doesn't rush. Doesn't scan the room. He looks like a man who chose to be here and is waiting for something he doesn't quite believe will happen.
Then he turns back to me.
"Is this seat taken?" he asks, voice low enough that I have to lean in just slightly to hear him.
I shake my head.
He sits, leaving just enough space between us to be polite. The restraint feels deliberate.We talk slowly. About things that don't matter. About cities, about bad habits, about how neither of us usually stays out this late. The conversation has a rhythm—comfortable, unforced. No probing questions. No flirting that tries too hard.
That's when I realize the danger.
This feels easy.
When his knee brushes mine accidentally, it's brief. Barely anything. But my body reacts before my mind can intervene, a quiet awareness blooming low in my stomach.
I take a sip of my drink to hide it.
"Do you come here often?" he asks.
I smile faintly. "No."
"Me neither."
Apause stretches between us. Not awkward. Heavy.
"I don't want names," I say suddenly, surprising myself.
He studies me for a moment, then nods once. "Alright."
No argument. No curiosity. Just acceptance.
That should have been my warning.