He orders whiskey neat. He doesn’t ask what I want, just glances at me with a tilt of his chin, like he already knows.

He’s dressed sharp—black button-down, sleeves rolled, a watch that probably costs more than my rent. Everything about him feels curated. I can’t decide if I’m flattered or on edge.

“You always pick rooftop bars?” I ask, half teasing, half curious.

He smiles, slow and slanted. “...