11:09 PM — Somewhere in the city
The bar wasn't crowded. Just low music, lazy lights, and the faint scent of lime and spilled liquor.
Isadora sat with her elbows on the table and her face in her hands, an untouched wine glass in front of her. She looked beautiful in the tragic, post-heartbreak kind of way—smudged mascara, swollen eyes, lipstick faded.
Rowan dropped into the seat across from her and said nothing.
She broke first.
"He dumped me."
He nodded once. Not surprised. Not cold, either.
"…I figured."
"He didn't even say it in a mean way. Just…" she lifted her head, voice dull, "kind. Gentle. Thanked me for liking him. Like that made it better."
Rowan leaned back slowly, running a hand through his hair.
"Well," he said, "Ash has the emotional capacity of a wet cardboard box. A polite one."
Isadora let out a weak laugh. "You're defending him."
"I'm trying not to insult either of you."
Rowan muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. "The guy who dumped you is my best friend. What am I supposed to say? 'Yeah, he's an idiot'? Because that's also me betraying my loyalty clause."
Isadora let out a bitter laugh and wiped under her eye.
Rowan sighed. "Listen, Ash is—he's complicated. Emotionally allergic, introverted as hell, and lives in his own guilt-ridden head. You know that, right?"
She stared into her wine glass. "I know. I knew. But I still thought maybe… I could mean something more."
"You do," Rowan said softly. "To a lot of people. You just… picked a guy who only knows how to hold feelings at arm's length."
"I told him I'd wait," she whispered, more to herself than to Rowan.
Rowan swirled the drink in his glass and took a slow sip, finally. "Yeah, but that's the thing with waiting. Sometimes it becomes wasting."
Isadora's lip trembled.
"You're not trash, you know," he added, watching her carefully. "You're smart, you're bold as hell, and—annoyingly—your eyeliner always survives a mental breakdown."
She snorted. "That's because it's waterproof."
She pushed the wine glass toward him. "Drink. Don't make me the only one getting drunk over a guy who won't even look back."
Rowan lifted his glass slowly. "To bad decisions?"
"To bad decisions," Isadora echoed, clinking her glass with his. They both took a sip.
Then another.
Then three.
Time passed, and the bar got quieter.
The live music faded into background noise. Laughter from other tables turned into a hum. The two of them stayed close, leaned over the table, shoulders brushing occasionally, and a buzz of something not entirely friendly settled between them.
Isadora had stopped crying a while ago.
Now she just looked… tired.
"Do you ever wonder," she murmured, "if you're just always going to be second to someone else? That you could give everything and still… not be enough?"
Rowan stared at her for a moment. Then he reached forward and gently took her glass away.
"Okay, you've officially hit 'existential spiral' territory."
"I'm being serious."
"So am I." He leaned back in his chair. "You're not second. You're just in the wrong story. You want someone to choose you like you're the plot twist, but the guy you chose is too busy being the trauma main character."
She blinked slowly. "That was… oddly poetic."
"Thanks," Rowan said dryly. "I have my moments."
Another pause. He poured the last of the bottle into her glass. Then handed it to her.
"Drink. Because if I'm going to be your emotional support himbo, I need to at least be tipsy for the job."
She laughed weakly; tears still faint in her eyes. "You're not a himbo."
"I'm literally only good at lifting things and being confused by feelings."
"You're not confused," she said, studying him closely. "You're just pretending it's easier to not get involved."
Rowan looked at her then—really looked.
"I know what it feels like," he said slowly, "to love someone who's looking somewhere else."
Isadora didn't reply.
She just raised her glass again and whispered, "Then drink with me."
And he did.
Whatever the night had started as—sadness, closure, comfort—it was beginning to melt into something neither of them fully recognized.
Or maybe they did.
And they were just too drunk, too bruised, and too tired to pretend otherwise.
The bartender called last rounds.
The lights dimmed.
And neither of them left alone.
———
Isadora's Apartment – Late Night
The door slammed.
Somewhere between the floor and the couch, Rowan tripped—his back hitting the rug with a thud. "Oof—!"
"Shut up," Isadora mumbled breathlessly, straddling him before he could recover. Her lips were already crashing against his, their tongues colliding in a hot, messy kiss. She tasted like wine and midnight desperation.
Rowan groaned into her mouth, hands instinctively gripping her waist.
Isadora pulled off his shirt in one quick move, then stripped off her own top too—leaving her in just her black bra. Her skin flushed, her breathing uneven, but her gaze locked on him.
They kissed again. Slower now, but deeper—like they were trying to burn out every ache they'd been holding in.
Her hips rolled against him. Rowan's breath hitched.
He reached up, his fingers brushing against her side—hesitating—until she guided his hands to her.
She leaned down to whisper, "Touch me."
He did.
His hands explored, careful but curious, while hers slid down his body—bold and impatient. She cupped him over his jeans, palm pressing firmly. He gasped, hips twitching under her.
Isadora smirked.
"You're already this hard for me?" she murmured, voice low and teasing. "Didn't think you were that easy, Rowan."
He tried to speak, but she pressed her lips against his again, silencing him with another deep kiss.
Then her hand moved to unzip his jeans, slipping inside, fingers curling around him.
Rowan let out a shaky breath—half-moan, half-shiver. Her hand began to move—slowly, deliberately.
He bit his lip, eyes fluttering shut.
She kissed his jaw, his neck, her pace never faltering. "Let me take care of you," she whispered.
Rowan's hands gripped her thighs now, breathing heavier with each stroke.
"You feel so good," Isadora murmured against his ear. "Don't hold back."
And he didn't.
———