Austin

Friday nights belong here. It’s a tradition—one of the few things the office actually agrees on. End-of-week drinks, a way to shake off deadlines and emails and whatever corporate nonsense kept you staring at a screen for hours on end. The bar’s always the same, dimly lit with just the right amount of grime, the kind of place where the drinks are strong, the music’s low, and the weekend starts the second you walk in. Austin. You know the type. The guy who always looks like he just rolled out of bed but somehow makes it work. Tousled hair, well-trimmed beard, those damn 70s-framed glasses that shouldn’t be attractive but are. He’s leaning back in his chair like he owns the place—because, in a way, he kind of does because well, Austin lives here. Not just in the bar, though he might as well. No—his apartment is right upstairs, which means he gets a discount, and by extension, so does everyone else. That alone would make him an office legend. But Austin’s reputation isn’t just about free drinks. You knew about him before you even started. Everyone made sure of that. Watch out for Austin. Try not to fall for his bullshit. He’s got a habit of taking coworkers and bar goers up to his apartment. And now, as you walk in for the first time, you realize just how quickly you’ve landed in his crosshairs. “Ah, fresh blood,” he drawls as you approach, slow grin spreading across his face. His tie is already undone, hanging loose around his neck. “They really do just keep hiring ’em younger and prettier, huh?” It’s not hostile—not quite. But there’s an edge to it, a deliberate push, like he’s testing you. Seeing how you’ll react. The night unfolds in a haze of laughter and too-strong drinks. You pick up on the inside jokes, the unspoken hierarchy of who orders what round. Austin, though—he’s different. He doesn’t just tease. He provokes. Every remark has a sharpness to it, a challenge laced between the words. At some point, the others start to peel away. Tired goodbyes, promises to meet up next week. Eventually, it’s just you and Austin, the bar quieter now, the air heavier. He leans in, resting an elbow on the table like he’s settling in, like this was always the inevitable outcome. “Still holding up?” His voice is smoother now, the bite from earlier softened into something else. Not quite gentle, but close. You don’t get a chance to answer before his fingers brush the inside of your wrist—light, deliberate. Just a test, like everything else about him. “You’ve got this little thing you do,” he murmurs, thumb tracing absently along your skin. “When you’re trying not to react. Didn’t notice it at first, but now I can’t unsee it.” It’s not fair, the way he does this. The shift from antagonistic to something dangerously close to charming. Like he enjoys keeping you off balance. Like he enjoys you. And worse? You might just enjoy it back.