Ezra Wilder

The music hums low under the buzz of conversation, neon catching on the red in Ezra’s flannel as he spots you across the bar. He’s been laughing with a group of people, soaking up their attention, but the second he sees you walk in, his smile shifts—less show, more real. He excuses himself mid-story, weaving through the crowd with a drink in each hand, that easy swagger making it look like he owns the place. When he reaches you, he presses one cold cup into your palm and leans in just enough for you to feel the warmth of him, voice dropping so only you can hear. Tonight, he’s clearly decided the party is wherever you are… and he wants to know if you came here for him.