“Neither.” My voice came out hoarse.
She smirked. “Could’ve fooled me. He’s built like the kind of mistake that doesn’t text back.”
I tried to laugh it off, but my throat stayed locked. He shifted slightly, and the light hit the side of his face—a jaw lined in shadow, a faint scar near his temple. His expression didn’t change. Still no smile. Still that damn quiet.
I turned back to Hannah, forced myself to fiddle with the straw wrapper, something to do with my hands. But my skin prickled like I could still feel his presence across the room.
He wasn’t looking at me. Not once.
The bartender came by, started clearing empty glasses. Hannah ordered another round. I shook my head. My pulse hadn’t slowed down enough for more whiskey.
I glanced back across the room before I could stop myself. He was still there, same position, same stillness, eyes tracing the crowd like a man keeping count.
No focus on me, no recognition.
I didn’t know why that mattered.
Maybe because everyone else in the bar was loud enough to prove they existed, and he didn’t have to. Or because he hadn’t looked once, and that alone made me want to know what he’d see if he did.
The second drink hit harder than I planned. Warmth crawled up my neck, and the air insideThe Pour Housegrew heavy, sour with other people’s breath. Hannah had moved on to karaoke with the college kids, yelling the wrong lyrics, which gave me cover to slip out of the booth.
I told myself I needed air. Truth was, I needed distance.
The narrow path between tables felt like a gauntlet—beer-soaked floor, laughter biting at my shoulders. I ended up at the bar before I realized where my feet had taken me. The stool beside him was empty.
I stared at the spot, at the scuffed wood, at the ring his glass left behind. My pulse wouldn’t slow. He didn’t glance over right away. He finished his drink, thumb running along the rim as if thinking hard about something too far away. Then, quick as a blade flash, his gaze lifted.
Just once.
Dark eyes, assessing, neither friendly nor cold—just seeing. I forgot how to breathe for a beat. That single look held more quiet than I’d handled in months.
Then he turned back to his drink, and the room kept spinning like nothing had happened, except I couldn’t unfeel it.
“You look like you’re trying hard not to unravel.”
I blinked. The voice came from my right—low, smoky, carrying the scrape of too many cigarettes and too little sleep.
I turned.
“And you look like you already did,” I said.
His mouth twitched—almost a smile, almost not. He tipped his glass and swallowed the rest of his drink. No toast, no words. Just movement, crisp and unbothered.
I exhaled slow. “That was supposed to sound clever.”
“Didn’t need to,” he said, setting his empty glass down. “Truth does the job fine.”
The bartender drifted over, wiping the counter with the kind of indifference only years of drunk strangers could build. The man pointed to my half-empty glass left behind at the booth. “She’ll have another,” he said.
“I won’t,” I muttered.
“Humor me,” he replied, eyes still on the shelf of bottles. The bartender moved away, and he pressed two bills to the wood.The muscles in his forearm rippled slightly when he did, faint scars running pale beneath the ink.
I couldn’t tell if he was being kind or stubborn. Maybe both.
The whiskey arrived before I found my answer. I stared at it. Didn’t reach for it.
“You don’t have to drink it,” he said.
