The bar pulsed with a rhythm that felt foreign to me, bodies pressed too close, laughter too loud, music with a bassline that vibrated through the soles of my shoes. Six months in Brussels, and I still hadn't acclimated to the way Europeans treated nights out like some kind of sacred ritual. Back in Chicago, I'd never been one for crowded places, preferring the quiet hum of my apartment, a glass of wine, and the glow of my laptop screen as I finished up work. But even I had limits. Six Fridays in a row eating takeout alone had been the final straw.
I swirled the clear liquid in my glass, watching the ice cubes clink against the sides. Vodka tonics were my weakness, one made my limbs pleasantly warm, two loosened my tongue in ways I'd regret later, and three would have me swaying on my feet. Tonight, I'd stop at one. Definitely.
Around me, the bar thrived. A group of women in dresses that clung to their bodies shrieked with laughter as they took shots. A couple in the corner was practically fused at the lips, hands roaming in a way that should have required a room with a lock. And then there was me, Hestia Carter, twenty-three years old, in a sensible blouse and dark jeans, sipping my drink like it was a business meeting rather than a Friday night.
Pathetic.
The stool beside me scraped against the floor, the sound sharp enough to draw my attention. A man settled into it, close enough that I caught the scent of him sandalwood, yes, but something else beneath it, something dark and smoky, like a fire that hadn't quite burned out. Expensive. Dangerous.
I shouldn't have looked up.
But I did.
Sharp cheekbones, a jawline that could cut glass, and eyes so pale they were almost colorless, like ice under moonlight. Handsome, yes, but in a way that made my skin prickle with unease. This wasn't the kind of attractiveness that made you smile; it was the kind that made you want to step back, to reassess your surroundings.
He didn't glance at me. Just lifted a hand and ordered a whiskey neat. The bartender nodded, poured, and then lingered, expectant.
A beat passed. The man patted his coat pockets, his expression flickering with irritation.
"Chyort voz'mi," he muttered under his breath.
Huh! Not that it mattered.
I watched him for a second, debating. I wasn't the type to pay for strangers' drinks. But there was something about the way his fingers flexed against the bar, the tension in his shoulders, that made me act before I could overthink it.
I slid a few euros across the counter. "I've got it."
His head turned slowly, those unsettling eyes locking onto mine. For a heartbeat, I regretted speaking. There was something unnerving about the way he looked at me not gratitude, not even curiosity. It was the kind of focus a predator gave its prey, like he was dissecting me, memorizing the way my throat moved when I swallowed.
But then his mouth curved, slow and deliberate, and my stomach did a traitorous flip.
"Thank you so much," he said, his voice low, accented. "I'm Yulian."
"Hestia." I said my real name without thinking twice.
I forced a polite smile and immediately reminded myself: You have a boyfriend. A loving, trusting boyfriend who's working late tonight because he's just as much of a workaholic as you are. You don't flirt with strangers, no matter how unfairly attractive they are.
I took a deliberate sip of my drink, the vodka burning my throat. One drink. That was my limit tonight.
Across the bar, a woman stumbled into her friend, giggling. A man at the end of the counter was buying rounds for a group of people he'd clearly just met. And here I was, sitting stiffly beside a man who'd just ordered a drink that probably cost my daily per diem. Who would have thought this random club in the corner would have this expensive whiskey. Wondering if this was his usual routine; show up, look devastating, and let some poor woman foot the bill.
The thought should have made me roll my eyes. Instead, I found myself sneaking another glance at him.
Yulian didn't try to make conversation, which I appreciated. But I caught him watching me when he thought I wasn't looking, his gaze lingering on my mouth, my throat, the ring on my left hand. Not with interest, exactly. More like… assessment.
An hour later, I stood to leave, my head pleasantly light from the single cocktail. Yulian didn't stop me, didn't even say goodbye. Just nodded once, those icy eyes tracking me until I was out the door.
See? I told myself as I walked home, the cool Brussels air sharp against my cheeks. Perfectly harmless interaction.
I didn't look back. If I had, I might have seen him still watching me through the bar's window, his whiskey untouched.
𓇢𓆸𓇢𓆸𓇢𓆸𓇢𓆸