Her smirk flickered. “You know, they let you order a second.”
“Maybe I’m savoring it.” He lifted the glass slightly in mock acknowledgment.
“Or maybe,” he added, eyes narrowing a little, “you’re the one stalling tonight.”
Her tone turned playful, but her gaze stayed sharp. “And what exactly do you think I’m stalling for, Blackwell?”
He tilted his head like he was actually thinking it over. “Could be the silence. Could be the company.”
Her lips curved. “You think I’m lingering for your charming personality?”
“I think you’re not in a rush to be alone with your thoughts.”
That hit harder than she expected. Her gaze dropped for half a second before she looked back up—same fire, still defiant.
“What about you?” she countered, softer now. “What are you hoping to find in the bottom of that bourbon?”
His smile thinned, then faded altogether. “Maybe the same thing you are.”
A beat passed.
She inhaled slowly, her fingers pausing against the counter.
His answer hung between them, thick with something that felt honest. Felt real.
“Sometimes…” she said, her voice lower now, “keeping busy’s just easier than being still.”
He nodded, slow. “Yeah.”
“And what do you think about when you stop?”
His voice was gentle. But unrelenting.
Like he knew.
Already understood exactly what he was asking of her.
She gave a small smirk. More reflex than anything real. “How much time do you have?”
His mouth curved faintly—a rare softness in his expression. “How much time do you need?”
The care in his voice, soft and open, cut right through her defenses.
She held his gaze, and something shifted. The quiet between them wasn’t quiet anymore.
“I probably need all night,” she said. The truth just… slipped out.
“Good thing I’ve got all night.”
He nodded toward the lounge.
“Come on. You’re done here, whether you admit it or not.”
He motioned toward the lounge. “Come on. There’s not much left to do here.”
She hesitated. The moment stretched, taut and unreadable.
“Alright. But I might need a stiff drink before the night’s over.”
