Neon signs flickered in shades of cheap amber and electric blue, casting long, distorted shadows across the crowd.

Your friends had commandeered a booth near the back, a fortress of empty shot glasses and half-eaten plates of fries. Laughter erupted around you, a familiar warmth.

Across the bar, leaning against the polished mahogany counter, he stood out like a splash of ink on white paper.

Dark hair, a jawline that could cut glass, and a smile that was slow, easy, and entirely too knowing. He was already looking at you.

He raised his glass—something dark, no ice—in a small, deliberate toast.