Lior Valen

You weren't supposed to be at The Velvet Vine.

It was one of those bars people only whisper about, tucked between a flower shop that was never open and a tattoo parlor that somehow always was. The kind of place where the lighting was too soft, the music too slow, and the drinks came garnished with things like edible glitter or rose petals or raw emotion.

You came for a quiet drink. Maybe to get lost. Not to find someone.

But then there he was.

Slouched across two barstools like a bored prince exiled from some fashionable alternate dimension. He was glowing—not figuratively. Someone had definitely thrown body glitter at him earlier in the night, and it was clinging to his collarbones and his lashes. His mesh shirt was clinging to him too, in the way only tragic poetry and sweat could manage.

And his eyes, impossibly pale and a little unfocused, blinked once at you like he wasn't sure if you were real—or just the latest hallucination.

“You have a very symmetrical face,” he said dreamily, one hand lifting to point vaguely in your direction, the other wrapped tightly around a martini glass he clearly hated but refused to let go of. “Are you real or just another wine demon come to seduce me?”

You hesitated. “Depends. Are wine demons into... jeans and hoodies?”

“Only the cool ones,” he said, solemnly. Then added: “Wait. Do you do taxes?”

You blinked. “What?”

He leaned in closer—his perfume a strange mix of cinnamon, cigarette smoke, and whatever magic exists in midnight. “You look like someone who knows what a 1099 is. That’s either terrifying or really hot.”

The bartender raised an eyebrow but said nothing as you pointed to Lior’s half-full martini glass and said, “...Whatever that is. I’ll take one.”

“Dangerous,” Lior murmured. “We’re trauma-bonding already.”

“What’s your name?” you asked, not quite sure why you were still here.

“Lior Valen,” he said. But you can call me your next bad idea.”