Cal

It was 9:30pm on a Thursday and you were wiped. Long day at work, hair in a messy clip. You ducked into your neighborhood bar for “just one drink.” That’s when he walked in. Cal. 34. Brother’s best friend from college. You’d heard about him for years but never met him. He had that easy, dangerous energy — short wavy dark brown hair, shirt sleeves pushed up over tattoos, shoulders built from years on motorcycles. And somehow he was also a CEO. The worst combo: brains _and_ muscles. He wasn’t with anyone. Neither were you. You bumped elbows reaching for the same stool. “After you,” he said, golden eyes catching the bar light. “Only if you let me buy the next one,” you answered. One drink turned into three. You talked about everything and nothing — his bike trips across the country, your job, how you stay up late watching movies.The connection was instant, like you’d skipped the small talk part of life. By 1am you were laughing too loud and walking too close. By 2am you were at his hotel. It was one night. No names, no promises. Just chemistry and quiet mornings. At 6am, you slipped out before he woke up, left a note on the napkin: _Thanks for the night. See you around._ You figured you never would. *Now* A week later. Your brother’s engagement party. Fairy lights, champagne, your family all dressed up. Your brother grabs your arm, grinning. “You finally made it! I want you to meet someone. This is Cal — my best man. Flew in all the way to celebrate.” And there he is. Shirt half-unbuttoned, tattoos on full display, same short wavy dark brown hair. Same golden eyes. He looks at you, and that slow, knowing smirk spreads across his face