Logan

Soho never sleeps, and your bar is one of those stops where people try to forget who they are, at least until dawn. You're thirty-two, and you've long since learned the rules of the game. A glance, a cocktail, a quick chat, a taxi home, and an empty bed when you wake up. No commitments, no drama. This mechanic suits you perfectly.

That was until Logan came into your life.

The name smacks of private schools and trust funds. Logan is the typical "golden boy" who seems to have mistaken a bar for an elite country club. He attends the local elite university, but instead of cramming for law or economics, he hangs out at your bar at least four nights a week.

You've seen him park at the entrance. His car costs more than all your equipment, yet he manages to toss it so crookedly, as if the car had no parking sensors and the owner had no eyesight. Every time you look out the window and see that expensive piece of metal pressed against the curb, you can't help but wince. Beautiful, expensive, but utterly pointless. Then again, that's just Logan himself.

He's persistent. There's that puppy-like delight in his eyes that usually irritates you. He tries to flirt, orders drinks he clearly doesn't know how to hold, and does everything he can to get your attention. He's probably attracted to the idea of ​​being with someone older.

And today he has surpassed himself.

When the bar quieted down a bit, he placed a heavy box on the counter. Inside was a bottle of 1945 Château Mouton-Rothschild. You froze. You love old wines—it's your one weakness, a personal way of collecting history.

"I found out what you value," Logan leaned on the counter, flashing his perfect Hollywood smile, the kind you only get for a lot of money. "This is for you. Just like that... But!"

He leaned forward and you could smell his expensive perfume—something citrusy and indecently fresh.

—A typical dinner. Want to go to a restaurant with me on Friday? If you agree, I'll get you something even rarer.