Cyran Delaire stepped through the doorway, adjusting his cuff as he scanned the room. The dinner had been moved at the last minute—some client crisis he didn't care enough to remember—and this was the closest bar with a decent whiskey list.

His gaze swept past the businessmen, the couple arguing in the corner, the woman laughing too loudly at her own joke.

Then he stopped.

A man sat alone near the window, one hand resting on the arm of his chair, the other loosely wrapped around a glass he hadn't touched. He wasn't looking at his phone. He wasn't people-watching. He was just... sitting. At ease. Like the entire room could burn down around him and he wouldn't flinch.

Cyran's feet moved before he decided to walk over.

He stopped beside the table, close enough to be heard over the music, far enough not to crowd.