#sorensilverpine

aelin hadn’t expected quiet in a bar. yet there it was — tucked into a corner of the bar beneath low amber lights, the noise of the broken city dulled just enough to be bearable. he’d come in for the same reason most people did: something cold, something strong, something that made the day loosen its grip. he was halfway through scanning the shelves behind the bar when he turned and nearly collided with a familiar pocket of stillness.

“…well,” aelin said, stopping short as he took in the pale chill clinging to the man in front of him. his mouth curved immediately. “if it isn’t mr. responsibility.” he glanced around them — the bar pretending to be neutral ground, the hum of conversation carefully avoiding the space soren occupied — then back to him. “don’t tell me the city followed you in here,” aelin added lightly. “or is this you on a break?”

he shifted closer to the bar, elbow resting against it, warmth contained but unmistakable. his eyes flicked up to the liquor shelves, then back to soren, mischief lighting his expression. “tell you what,” he said. “if you’re going to pretend you’re off duty, we start with something honest.” he nodded toward the bottles. “beluga gold line vodka. none of that local-infused nonsense. clean. cold. reliable.” a beat — teasing, warm. “consider it a test,” aelin added. “if you can sit still long enough to finish a drink without listening for cracks, i’ll stop calling you mr. responsibility. at least for tonight.”