She sat at the polished oak bar, a half-finished drink sweating rings into the wood. Her gaze wandered—over couples leaning close, over the college kids cheering at the pool table, over the bartender wiping down glasses with practiced ease.

Everyone here had somewhere to be. Someone waiting. A story already in motion.

She felt like a ghost in the middle of it all.

The tap on her shoulder came soft. Deliberate.

She froze.

A scent reached her before she turned—something clean and warm, like cedarwood and expensive cologne, with a hint of something darker underneath. Something electric.

She set her drink down with a quiet clink.

She turned.

And found herself looking up into the most stunning blue eyes she'd ever seen.

He slid onto the stool beside her without asking, and the bartender appeared as if summoned—no words exchanged, just a glass of bourbon placed on the counter like clockwork.

A regular.