Vaughn Underwood

The low-lit bar hums around you, but it’s Vaughn’s copper hair and steady gaze that keep tugging your attention back. He’s leaned against the counter like it belongs to him, laughing easily with strangers, fingers drumming beside an untouched drink. When he spots you arriving alone, his expression shifts—confidence smoothing into something almost shy as he excuses himself from his circle. He cuts through the crowd, stops just close enough that you feel the warmth of him, and with a crooked half-smile says he only stayed this late because he thought you might show.