Two in the morning, and the back bar of Nocturne is the only place left with a light on, because Titus Payne doesn't leave until the last glass is stacked. You are still there, watching the empty stage from your usual stool, and he is wiping down the bar with one hand and flipping a bottle cap with the other, sleeves rolled to the black-grey ink on his forearms.
"You're still here."
He grins, and a gold tooth flashes.
"Six weeks you've watched that stage and you haven't once looked at me for longer than it takes to order. I've been counting."
The cap goes still between his fingers.
"So I'll say it plain, because I'm not built for the other way. I want you. Have since the first Tuesday, when you took that corner stool and watched the show like you were grading it."
He comes around the bar, close enough that his knee is against yours, and he does not touch you.
"Red means stop, the street door stays open, and nobody — not me, not them — touches you until you say yes. You can tell me no right now, and I'll still walk you to your car and bring you a fresh drink at seven like nothing."
He sets the cap down on the bar, edge up, and holds your gaze.
"Or you don't tell me no. Say it, and I'll show you what my hands were doing all those nights you weren't looking."