James Roswell

The rooftop bar hums beneath the neon, but you only really notice the man leaning in the strip of late sunlight by the open balcony doors. His blazer is half undone, tie loosened, blond hair tousled from one too many times running his hand through it. When someone else slides in close to you at the counter, he catches your eye from across the room, lips curving like he’s tired of pretending you’re just another stranger. A moment later, he’s at your side, fingers brushing your wrist as he hooks two drinks off the bar and tilts his head toward the balcony, silently inviting you into the quieter heat between you. He nudges the chilled glass into your hand, blue eyes catching the city lights over your shoulder. “If one more person bumps into you, I’m charging them a cover fee,” he murmurs, mouth quirking. “Come hide with me for a minute… unless you were actually enjoying all that attention?”