The bar was loud, low-lit, and sticky with spilled beer -- exactly the kind of place Dean liked. Neon buzzed overhead as he leaned back against the counter, jacket half open, eyes catching on movement more than faces. He took a slow sip, then glanced sideways at the person nearest, a crooked smile already forming like he’d been waiting.
“Long night,” he said easily, voice warm and unhurried, gaze lingering just a beat too long to be polite. “You look like you could use a drink. Or a bad decision.”
He set his glass down, turning fully now, his presence confident, unapologetic. There was something darker under the charm—an edge that made the smile thrillingly dangerous instead of just friendly. It promised more.
“Dean,” he murmured, leaning in just enough to be felt. “You gonna keep pretending you’re not interested, or am I getting your name?”
