I went home because that’s what I was supposed to do. Peel off my clothes. Scrub my hands raw. Wipe down every surface. Arrange the books on my shelf until their spines are aligned just right. Check the locks. Then check them again.

  But it was Friday. And Friday meant the bar.

  I did not want to go. I told myself I wouldn’t. I paced my apartment, watching the clock inch toward nine, chanting inside my head that I could break the pattern. I could stay in. I could sit still.

  But I couldn’t. Because it was Friday and I had to.

  My therapist used to tell me that routine could become a prison. She’d sit across from me in her soft gray sweater, speaking in that carefully even tone, and say, You have to break the circle, Kathy. You can’t Break free from it if you isolate yourself.

  I had tried. I had forced myself to skip certain things. I had rearranged, removed, delayed, and battled myself. But it never worked. The pressure only built, growing and twisting inside my ribs until it was unbearable until I had to fix it or I’d unravel completely.

  The bar was part of the cycle now. I hadn’t meant for it to be, but it had slipped in like a silent infection, and now it was a rule.

  Not because I wanted to socialize.

  Not because I enjoyed the drinks.

  So at 8:45, I put on my coat. At 8:50, I locked my door. At 8:51, I unlocked it, then locked it again—three times, then four, then five, until the click felt right. At 8:55, I left my apartment. At 8:59, I arrived and waited outside so I could walk through the door at point 9.

  The air was thick with liquor and bodies, warm and electric, pulsing with some invisible rhythm I didn’t move to. The same bartender nodded at me, already pouring my usual drink—gin, neat. The same faces hovered in their usual places.

  And then there was him, Sitting alone, legs spread in that lazy, self-assured way, fingers curled loosely around a half-empty glass. On my usual seat. He looked like he had been there for a while. Not drunk, not yet, but loose at the edges.

  His gaze caught me instantly And held me.

  I should have looked away. But something about his stare unsettled me, like he already knew me like he had been waiting for me to arrive.

  I took three seats away from him in the bar, with a nervous feeling in my stomach and the bartender handed me the drink, his eyes on me as always. The look of pity. My fingers hovered over the glass before touching it. A half-second pause. A thought. Then a sip. The first sip always counts.

  I felt him before I heard him.

  A shift of air beside me. The slow approach of footsteps.

  Then his voice, low and amused.

  “You don’t seem like the type to drink alone.”

  I turned my head slightly. Close up, his features were even sharper—dark lashes, a mouth made for sin, and a hint of stubble along his jaw.

  He wasn’t sloppy-drunk. Just tipped enough to be bold.

  “I don’t,” I said. “Drink alone, I mean.”

  He smirked. “Then who are you drinking with?”

  I met his gaze, steady, even, unflinching.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  “Routine,” I said.

  He tilted his head, considering. “That’s a terrible drinking partner.”

  I let the silence stretch, sipping my gin, and waiting for him to leave.

  He didn’t.

  Instead, he slid into the seat beside me, casually, like this was inevitable.

  “Adrian,” he said, offering his hand.

  I stared at it. Then, against every instinct, every rule, every well-rehearsed wall—

  I shook it and looked back at my glass stoically.

  But even with my distant attitude, Adrian didn’t leave.

  He stayed, ordered another drink, and settled into my space like he belonged there. Like he wasn’t a stranger. Like I hadn’t already decided that he was just another face, another passing moment in a night I hadn’t even wanted to be part of.

  “I feel like I should ask what your name is,” he said, lazily stirring the ice in his glass. “But I kind of like the mystery.”

  I glanced at him over the rim of my drink. Up close, he had the kind of face that made women reckless—sharp jaw, cheekbones that could cut, lips just full enough to make every word seem like a promise. He had an easy confidence, the kind that came naturally, the kind that said he was used to getting what he wanted.

  I didn’t care for men like that.

  “I think I prefer mystery too,” I said, setting my drink down.

  His grin widened as if I had given him exactly what he wanted. “Ah, so you do have a playful side.”

  I didn’t. But I let him think I did.

  I knew his type—outgoing, charming, used to the rhythm of flirtation, the chase, the promise of something easy. He was already leaning in just slightly, elbows on the bar, his whole posture screaming I want you to want me.

  But I didn’t play those games.

  I kept my distance, my voice even, my words polite but cool.

  “I come here every Friday,” I said. “Not for company. Just for the routine.”

  “Routine,” he repeated, swirling his drink. “Interesting word. It seems to be your favorite.”

  “It’s just a word.”

  “Not to you.”

  That threw me off, just a little.

  Before I could respond, my fingers started tapping against the wooden bar—soft, precise, a rhythm I didn’t have to think about. One, two, three. One, two, three. Over and over. A pattern. A tether. A quiet command my body obeyed even when I didn’t want it to.

  Adrian’s gaze flicked down.

  He noticed.

  Most people didn’t. Or if they did, they pretended not to. Or they obviously marked me with their eyes as a lunatic.

  But he just watched for a moment, then said, “That’s an interesting habit.”

  I didn’t freeze. I didn’t flinch. I just exhaled and gave him the answer most men would’ve run from.

  “I have OCD,” I said it casually like it didn’t matter. Like it wasn’t something that had dictated my entire life. “You know, the crazy kind. The kind people make jokes about until they actually see what it looks like.” I picked up my glass and took a slow sip. “That’s the part where you decide to leave.”

  But He didn’t leave.

  He didn’t even smirk or didn’t say something stupid or empty.

  I could feel His whole demeanor changed.

  The flirtation faded, not completely, but enough to make space for something else. Something softer.

  His brows drew together slightly like he was thinking—not searching for a way out, but actually processing.

  Then he said, “Some people are just stupid.“

  For the first time in a long time, I had no idea what to say.

  Adrian didn’t look away, Didn’t shift uncomfortably like most people did when they heard something they weren’t equipped to deal with.

  Instead, he just tilted his head slightly, studying me like I was an unsolved riddle.

  “So, is this your therapy?” he asked, nodding toward my fingers still tapping against the bar. “Or am I part of an experiment now?”

  A flicker of amusement curled at the edge of his mouth, but his tone was careful like he was feeling out the limits of the conversation.

  I exhaled, slowly but couldn’t help but smile. “You are the therapy?”

  His brows lifted, intrigued, playfully pouting “We only just met. I don’t even know your name.“

  “That’s how therapy works, doesn’t it? You tell a stranger things you’d never tell anyone else.”

  His grin was sharp, but his eyes softened. “Then tell me something you never told anyone else.”

  I should’ve laughed. Should’ve dismissed the whole conversation before it got too deep, too close, too real. But there was something in his expression that made it impossible to pull away.

  Instead of answering, I let my fingers move again—tapping out their familiar rhythm against the wood. One, two, three. One, two, three. The sound was barely there, but it felt right, like resetting a balance that no one else could see.

  Adrian didn’t interrupt.

  He watched.

  And then, slowly, he reached out and took my hand.

  A small touch, deliberate but gentle. He didn’t squeeze, didn’t try to still my fingers, didn’t even lace his fingers through mine.

  He just held his palm toward my fingers and rested it on the wood.

  My breath hitched, but he didn’t say anything. Just turned my hand over, his thumb brushing against my palm as if tracing invisible lines.

  A silent question. A quiet challenge.

  I answered without thinking.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  Right there, against his skin.

  Adrian’s lips parted slightly, but he didn’t pull away. Didn’t break eye contact.

  Just let me tap. One, two, three. One, two, three. My rhythm, my rules, my control.

  And he let me have it.