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He made drinks on autopilot.

He smiled at customers and answered their questions without actually processing any of them.

Until…

“How many jobs do you have?”

That fucking voice.

Notes:

This just occurred to us: Ray and Milo are a lot like the two of us. M is the overly emotional, melodramatic one and A is usually very level-headed and reasonable. Sometimes we joke that M is the idea-haver and A is the make-surer that the ideas make any sort of sense and work for whatever story we’re writing.

We didn’t plan for the similarities, but it’s fun now that we see them.

5

Notes:

Four Leaf Clover Cocktail

2 oz Gin

1 oz Midori Melon Liqueur

½ oz Lemon Juice (freshly squeezed)

½ oz Simple Syrup

1 Egg White

Sounds gross, NGL (not an ingredient, just an observation)

Rowan

He’d had no intention of speaking until he figured out what he was doing at a bar on a worknight, but the words left his mouth anyway.

He didn’t even recall making the decision to come here. He’d never stepped foot in this place before. He’d been headed home after that fully disastrous day and just wanted to relax and unwind. Apparently his lizard brain heard that and went…alcohol.

He was parking and walking inside before he could reason with himself. And then he was at the bar, where a shock of silver hair flashed before his eyes.

And then Rowan had spoken.

He watched Milo as he whipped around, pale blue eyes narrowing to slits for a moment before filling with a piercing hatred he seemed to reserve especially for Rowan.

He didn’t like it. He was dragon enough to admit that. And he was, begrudgingly, against his better judgment, curious enough about Milo to want to get into his good graces and learn more.

How did he think denying his dragonhood was a good move? Why did he think he could pass as a human when it was so obvious? It didn’t make any sense.

“That is none of your concern,” Milo said, bringing him back to the question he had asked. “What do you want?”

“First time here.” Rowan tried for friendly. They’d got off on the wrong foot, and if Rowan wanted information the foot had to be right. Not that he liked feet. He shook his head. “What’s good?”

“We have industrial-level bleach.” Milo kept glaring at him as he pulled out a gigantic can of energy drink and downed it with impressive, and slightly worrying, speed. “I can make it a double. On the house.”

“I think I’ll stick with bourbon.”

Milo scoffed before pouring him one and slamming it down in front of him. “Hope you choke on it,” he said, and went to turn around. Before Rowan’s brain caught on, his hand snapped out and his fingers circled Milo’s thin wrist.