Every Friday night, she sat three stools from the end of the bar beneath the amber light that softened everything around her except the loneliness in her eyes.

An Old Fashioned with Buffalo Trace. Always that.

Never rushed.

The bartender would set it down before she even asked, and she’d give that same small smile in return — grateful, quiet, familiar. Like she spent most of her life taking care of everyone else and had learned to make herself easy to love in small doses.

He noticed everything about her because he’d spent months pretending not to.

The black dress changed slightly each week, but only barely. Soft fabric. Dark lace trimming the neckline or the sleeves. Elegant without trying too hard. It complimented her in dangerous ways — the kind that made a man wonder what restraint must’ve looked like on her. She never revealed much skin, but somehow that made her feel even more intimate. More devastating.

And her hair.

Dark. Not brown. Not black. Something richer than both. Always pinned neatly away from her face in ways that exposed the curve of her neck. Always immaculate, like she needed at least one thing in her life to stay controlled.

She carried sadness beautifully.

Not dramatically.

Not loudly.

Just enough for someone observant to catch it in the pauses.

He learned her patterns the way lonely people learn songs by heart.

She liked sad jazz best. Old love songs with brass sections that sounded bruised around the edges. Whenever one came on, her demeanor shifted almost imperceptibly. Her fingers would tighten around the glass. Her lips would purse slightly like she was holding back a thought she couldn’t survive saying aloud.

Once, while passing behind him, she’d touched his shoulder lightly and murmured, “Excuse me.”

Another night, she caught him ordering and smiled softly.

“Oh,” she’d said. “You’re here again.”

Again.

As if she noticed him too.

That one sentence carried him through two entire weeks.

But every Friday ended the same.

He watched.

She left.

And he hated himself a little for letting another chance disappear.

Maybe it was fear.

Maybe it was the failed engagement sitting like a stone in his chest. The humiliation of almost marrying someone who could look him in the eyes while slowly falling out of love with him.

Approaching women had never become easy after that.

Still, every Friday he found himself back here.

Back to her.

This week had been brutal for him. Long hours. Sleepless nights. Too much silence in his apartment. By Friday evening he felt hollowed out by life, and embarrassingly enough, the thought of seeing her again had become the brightest part of his week.

But the moment he walked into the bar, he knew something was different.

She looked exhausted.

Not physically.

Soul-deep exhausted.

Her makeup was still flawless. Hair still perfect. Dress still beautiful. But her eyes…

There was a heaviness behind them he’d never seen before.

When he ordered another drink, the bartender leaned against the counter and finally sighed.

“You know,” he said, polishing a glass, “the entire staff’s been waiting for you to talk to her.”

Jesse nearly choked on his bourbon.

“What?”

“She’s a sweetheart. Comes in every Friday. And every Friday you stare at her like she personally wrote your obituary.”

Jesse groaned quietly into his drink.

“What’s the worst that happens?” the bartender shrugged. “She says no?”

Easy for him to say.

He didn’t understand what it felt like to build someone into mythology inside your head.

Then she stood.

Not toward the restroom.

Not toward the door.

Outside.

He blinked.

He had never seen her step outside before.

Something in him moved before his thoughts could catch up.

When he pushed through the bar door into the cold night air, he stopped dead.

She was standing beneath the flickering light beside the brick wall, holding a cigar between her fingers like she’d been born with one there.

Jesus Christ.

The smoke curled around her face slowly while the city hummed behind them. Her dark hair caught the yellow glow from the light overhead, and for a second she looked less like a woman and more like a scene from an old film he suddenly understood too well.

He didn’t even smoke. Maybe once in college, but he didn’t count that.

Yet somehow moments later he found himself standing directly in front of her as if his body had made the decision without consulting him.

His hand extended automatically.

“I’m—”

His mind blanked.

Completely.

Her eyes lifted to his and lit up instantly.

Not politely.

Not surprised.

Like she’d been waiting.

He swallowed hard. “Jesse.”

Her lips curved slowly around the cigar.

“Marissa,” she said.

Jesus.

The name suited her too perfectly.

He repeated it silently in his head immediately. Marissa. Marissa. Marissa.

Like if he didn’t, he might lose it.

She shook his hand gently, and even that nearly undid him. Her fingers were soft but cool from the night air, and the brief touch sent something sharp and electric up his arm.

“You finally came over,” she said quietly.

There was amusement in her voice. Warmth too.

Jesse laughed nervously. “I’ve been trying to work up the courage for about two months.”

“Two months?” Her brows lifted. “That’s almost insulting.”

He laughed harder this time, embarrassed. “I’m serious.”

“I know,” she said softly, studying him. “I could tell.”

The conversation started small after that.

Work.

The weather.

The awful jazz cover bleeding through the open bar door.

“That song should honestly be illegal,” she muttered after another painful trumpet note.

Jesse grinned. “So you noticed too.”

“Oh, I notice everything.”

The way she said it made his stomach tighten.

Up close, she was unbearable.

Her skin looked impossibly smooth beneath the streetlight. Her lips were painted a deep cherry red that made him think of expensive wine and ruined self-control. Her eyes were large and dark and intoxicating in a way that made him feel transparent standing under them.

And she knew exactly what she was doing to him.

He realized that when she interrupted him mid-sentence.

“You know,” she said softly, smoke leaving her lips in slow ribbons, “I started wondering if you were ever going to talk to me.”

Jesse blinked.

“What?”

A small laugh escaped her.

“You stare at me every Friday like you’re trying to solve me.” Her eyes flicked down briefly before meeting his again. “I figured eventually curiosity would win.”

His face burned instantly.

“I wasn’t staring.”

“You absolutely were.”

“I was trying to be subtle.”

“That’s adorable.”

God.

He didn’t know whether to laugh or collapse entirely.

Marissa looked at him for another long second, and suddenly the tension between them shifted. Thickened. The city noise behind them faded beneath the sound of her cigar crackling softly between her fingers.

“You wanna know something?” she asked.

“What?”

“I’m glad you came outside tonight.”

The way she said it nearly knocked the breath from his lungs.

He looked at her mouth without meaning to.

She noticed.

Of course she noticed.

Her eyes softened just slightly before she stepped closer, slow enough to give him time to pull away.

He didn’t.

Her perfume surrounded him first.

— warm jasmine and creamy tonka bean wrapped in cocoa and almond, softened by something floral and dangerously feminine underneath it all. Sweet without innocence. Elegant without softness. The kind of scent that lingered in elevators long after someone stepped out.

It wrapped around him completely.

“You’re nervous,” she murmured.

“I haven’t done this in a while.”

“Good,” she whispered. “Neither have I.”

Then she kissed him.

Not tentative.

Not rushed.

Intentional.

Her lips were softer than he’d imagined, warm from bourbon and smoke. The faint taste of tobacco clung to her mouth in a way that should not have been attractive and somehow was. Rich. Dark. Addicting. Like the last sip of something expensive at the end of a terrible week.

Jesse made a quiet sound against her mouth before he could stop himself.

The hand holding the cigar dropped to her side while her other hand slid lightly against his wrist, fingertips grazing his skin slow enough to make his pulse stutter violently beneath her touch.

Jesus Christ.

Every nerve in his body lit up at once.

The kiss deepened slightly — just enough to make him dizzy. He could feel the softness of her lips parting against his, could feel her slow inhale when he finally kissed her back with equal desperation.

And when she smiled faintly against his mouth, he realized something terrifying.

She had known exactly what this would do to him.

When they finally pulled apart, Jesse stayed close enough to feel her breath against his lips.

Neither of them spoke for a second.

Marissa looked at him with dark, knowing eyes before taking another slow drag from the cigar.

“Took you long enough,” she murmured.

Jesse laughed breathlessly, completely ruined already.

Who was this woman?

I want to roll you around my tongue like this bourbon.

I want to feel the fire in my soul as your lips touch mine, like the heat by my heart as I swallow this trace.