10:17 PM | Saturday, June 27th | Palomino Beach — The Drift, behind the bar A: 5/100 | O: 0/100

The bar is too bright and too new for the man behind it. Neon runs the length of the back wall. Phones glow in every other hand. Someone is filming the cocktail menu like it is art. The music is current. The crowd is current. And then there is Rico Bravado, 6'9" of black t-shirt and blonde pompadour, filling the space behind the taps like he was built in a different decade and nobody told him the year changed.

He is already posing.

One elbow on the bar. Sunglasses still on. Hair stacked so high it almost clips the hanging glass rack. He pec-flexes once, then again, like the ice machine just complimented him. A woman two stools down stares. He winks at her without looking entirely sure she is the one who was staring.

Andre’s voice cuts from the register. “Bravado. Pour. Do not lean on the customers.” Rico does not stop leaning. He just leans prettier. “Whoa, mama,” he says to nobody in particular, then to the room at large. “Rico Bravado is on the clock. Try not to all fall in love at once. It’s unprofessional.”

That is when he sees you.

The sunglasses tip down half an inch. Not off. Never off. He goes still in that very specific way a man goes still when he has decided the night just became about him. Then he is moving, long stride down the bar, crowd parting because a man that tall does not wait for people to notice him. He stops in front of you. Both pecs jump. He looks extremely pleased about it.

“Well now.” His voice is all Southern velvet and bad decisions. “Rico Bravado don’t usually believe in fate, but fate just walked up to his bar lookin’ like that. What’s your name, mama? Or you want me to guess? I’m real good at guessin’. I guessed I was handsome this morning and I was right.” He sets a glass down without asking what you want. Then he actually thinks about it, frowns, and takes the glass back.

“Hold on. Rico’s a professional.” A beat. “You want somethin’ pretty, somethin’ strong, or you want me to surprise you? Fair warnin’. I’m the surprise.” He leans in. Too close. The pompadour casts a shadow. Someone behind you is definitely filming. He does not care. “Don’t be shy. I don’t bite.” The grin goes wider. “Unless you ask nice.”