So when that person was about to leave, he grabbed the other’s hand and looked up, saying, “Hey man, mind sharing a table?”

Chapter 2

Eric Clark was really drunk and not thinking straight, to the point that he just grabbed someone at random to share a table and drink with. The touch was warm and dry. Eric Clark thought to himself, he really wasn’t usually this frivolous.

The man looked down at him, and Eric Clark said, “Sit, I’m alone.”

The other nodded and said, “Thanks.”

Eric Clark watched as the man came over and sat across from him, just as a beat dropped in the music and the lights flickered, letting him get a good look at the man’s face. Eric Clark tapped his fingers lightly on the edge of the table and whistled inwardly.

— Cool.

Not exactly handsome, but mature and striking. Close-cropped hair, thick dark brows and eyes, a plain black T-shirt, and the way he looked at people—all of it hit right on Eric Clark’s aesthetic nerve.

The man ordered a drink, and after the server left, Eric Clark raised his can of beer and tapped it on the table, saying to the person across from him, “Eric Clark.”

The other didn’t have a drink, so he glanced around the table, picked up a glass of untouched ice water, and tapped it lightly on the table. Eric Clark heard him say, “Adam Wright.”

The singer on stage was screaming their heart out, straining their voice to make up for not hitting the notes, so Eric Clark only caught the “Zhou” part—the rest was drowned out. But it didn’t matter; they were just sharing a drink to cover up the awkwardness, names weren’t really that important.

Later, the man’s beer arrived, and the two of them drank, taking turns, against the deafening noise from the stage. Eric Clark’s gaze would occasionally fall on the man, linger for a couple of seconds, then move away. After a while, he noticed the man’s every look and movement was casual, with a kind of effortless coolness that was easy on the eyes. Sometimes their eyes would meet, but the man didn’t seem to care, just met his gaze and looked away, nothing forced, nothing awkward.

Eric Clark thought, if he were ten years younger, he’d probably be nervously trying to exchange contact info by now.

After a torturous song ended, Eric Clark let out a long breath. The next song hadn’t started, and the singer on stage wasn’t talking either. Eric Clark was drunk and a bit slow, so in that brief silence, he stared straight at the man across from him, and their eyes met again. The man glanced at him and suddenly said, “I’m just here to drink, nothing else. If I’m bothering you, just say so and I’ll switch seats.”

Eric Clark blinked, taking a while to process what he’d said. He immediately sat up a bit awkwardly and shook his head hard. “I’m not here for that either, you’re overthinking it.”

“Alright then,” the man smiled faintly, raised his beer to Eric Clark, “Suit yourself.”

Normally, Eric Clark would have felt too awkward to keep looking, but tonight he was drunk and just went with the flow. He thought the guy across from him was good-looking, so he just kept staring, since the other didn’t mind. It had been a long time since he’d had a drink with anyone—not even with Ethan Harris, and that was ages ago, let alone with a total stranger like this. He’d almost never had this kind of experience, and right now he found it fresh and interesting.

He didn’t even notice when the singer left the stage; the music had shifted to a slow, sultry love song, and the lights had turned a dim, warm yellow.

The midnight crowd was left to the lonely and restless men and women.

Adam Wright looked at the obviously tipsy young guy across from him—he’d really had quite a bit to drink. Adam Wright reminded him, “Take it easy with the alcohol.”

Eric Clark leaned on his arm, squinting, and rubbed his nose with his finger. “I rarely drink.”

His words were a bit slurred, but he insisted, “I probably haven’t had a drink in two years. First time tonight… You really fit my type…”

Before the other could respond, he went on, “I just like guys who… have haircuts like yours, super cool.”

Adam Wright said, “Then you should get one too.”

“I can’t, my job doesn’t allow it…” Eric Clark didn’t even realize his voice had gone soft and a little hoarse from the alcohol, which sounded kind of funny. “I’m a teacher.”

Adam Wright raised his eyebrows and glanced at him.

“Don’t look like it, huh?” Eric Clark laughed, pointing at himself. “I’m actually a pretty good… teacher…”

He even hiccuped after saying that. It was funny, but not exactly ridiculous.

Adam Wright chuckled but said nothing.

There was no denying Eric Clark’s looks—people were used to calling him “Brian Clark” for a reason; he really was handsome. Now, drunk and leaning on the table, he looked like a prime catch to all the prowlers in the bar. But with someone sitting across from him, no one came over—they all knew he was taken. But in reality, the two of them had barely exchanged a few words; anyone watching closely would see they weren’t close, maybe didn’t even know each other.

After a while, someone came over, leaned down to look at Eric Clark’s face, blew a breath at him, and asked, “Wanna have a drink?”

Eric Clark opened his eyes to look at him and waved his hand. “Not interested.”