She had planned to leave early. A polite drink, some light conversation, then home. But as the evening slipped forward, his presence kept her anchored. He didn’t lean on charm in an obvious way—he let the night breathe around them, letting her decide how close to stand, how long to look. The way his fingers wrapped around his glass, slow and deliberate, made her think of hands that knew the value of taking their time.
The clock above the bar turned past eleven, then past midnight, but the hours didn’t feel like something she needed to watch. Each time she thought about leaving, he would say something low and steady, his voice settling into her like a warm coat on a cool night. When his shoulder brushed hers as he leaned to hear her better, she didn’t move away. The contact wasn’t an accident, and neither was the way she let it stay.
By the time they stepped outside, the streets were almost empty. The air was thick with the scent of rain, the glow from a streetlamp spilling over the curve of his smile. She realized she hadn’t even thought about the time until she saw the first bus of the morning pulling past the corner. Staying past midnight wasn’t the plan—but sometimes the plan changes the moment a man makes you forget the world outside exists.