The first time you saw him at the bar, he was all lazy confidence and half a grin, the kind of stranger who made the room tilt just slightly in his direction. He caught your stare over the rim of his glass — dark eyes that lingered a second too long, amused, like he’d already read every thought you hadn’t dared to say out loud. When he finally moved toward you, he didn’t rush; he walked as if he knew you’d still be there when he arrived. The hum of the bar dimmed around you, every sound fading beneath the weight of his attention. And when he leaned in to speak, his voice was low enough to make it feel like a secret meant only for you.