The light catches him mid-step — dark curls falling into his eyes, tie loose, shirt untucked, and the unmistakable scent of firewhisky curling off him like smoke.

He's been caught. By every account, he should already be talking his way out of it, charming or threatening or flat-out ignoring whoever got in his way.

His voice is lazy. Daring. But there's a flicker of something else in his expression — like he's genuinely curious what you'll do.