ep 3 thinking

Oliver didn’t reply right away. He just stared at Noah, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his glass. The air between them had shifted, thick with something unspoken.

“You keep saying that,” Oliver murmured. “‘Too late.’”

Noah shrugged, resting his chin on his hand. “Maybe because it is.”

Oliver exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You have no idea what you’re getting into, do you?”

Noah tilted his head, playful but curious. “Then tell me.”

Oliver watched him for a long moment, like he was weighing something. Then he leaned in, voice lower now, more serious. “I don’t do casual.”

The words hung between them, heavy. A warning.

Noah swallowed but didn’t look away. “Who said I was looking for casual?”

Oliver’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes—something unreadable, something restrained.

“You should go home, Noah,” Oliver finally said, straightening. His voice was quiet but firm.

Noah’s stomach twisted in something close to disappointment. He knew when he was being pushed away. He should have just nodded and left, pretended none of this ever happened.

But instead, he leaned forward, resting his arms on the bar, close enough that he could catch the faint scent of Oliver’s cologne—warm, rich, and entirely distracting.

“Why?” Noah asked softly.

Oliver’s jaw tightened. “Because you’re young.”

Noah raised an eyebrow. “That’s not a real reason.”

Oliver exhaled through his nose, looking almost amused. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“Then let me.” The words came out before Noah could stop them. But he meant them.

Oliver studied him, long and slow, like he was trying to decide if Noah was worth the trouble. The silence stretched, filled only by the low hum of jazz and the soft clinking of glasses behind the bar.

Then, finally, Oliver sighed, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a pen. He grabbed a napkin, scribbled something down, and slid it across the counter.

His number.

Noah stared at it, heart pounding just a little harder than he’d like to admit.

Oliver met his eyes, his voice calm but firm. “If you call, be sure you know what you want.”

Noah took the napkin, folding it carefully. He didn’t say thank you—it wasn’t that kind of moment. Instead, he smirked, slipping it into his pocket.

“I already do.”

Oliver’s lips quirked, but he said nothing.

Noah left the bar that night feeling electrified, like he had just stepped into something far bigger than he’d planned.

And for the first time in a long time, Oliver watched someone walk away, wondering if he should have let them in at all.

Noah stared at the napkin on his nightstand for three days.

He told himself he wasn’t waiting. That he wasn’t thinking about Oliver more than he should. But every time his phone buzzed, he caught himself hoping.

It was stupid. He barely knew the man. And yet, there was something about him—something about the way he carried himself, like he had already lived a hundred lives while Noah was still figuring out his first.

Maybe that was the appeal.

On the fourth night, after way too much overthinking, Noah grabbed his phone and dialed the number.

It rang. Once. Twice. Then—

“I was wondering when you’d call.”

Noah froze. He hadn’t expected Oliver to pick up so fast.

“You—uh. Hey.”

Oliver chuckled, smooth and unbothered. “Hey.”

Noah exhaled, forcing himself to relax. “So… what now?”

“You tell me,” Oliver said. “You were the one who called.”

Noah licked his lips, hesitating. He hadn’t really thought that far ahead. But he didn’t want to play games—not with Oliver.

“I want to see you,” Noah admitted.

There was a pause. A long, thoughtful kind of silence. Then—

“Midnight & Co. closes in an hour,” Oliver said. “Come by.”

Noah barely had time to respond before the line clicked dead.

He stared at his phone, heart hammering.

What the hell was he doing?

---

It was almost one in the morning when Noah stepped inside Midnight & Co.. The bar was empty now, chairs stacked, lights dimmed. Oliver stood behind the counter, rolling up his sleeves.

“You made it,” Oliver murmured, watching him.

Noah shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You asked me to.”

Oliver smirked. “You always do what you’re told?”

Noah stepped closer, leaning against the bar. “Not usually.”

Oliver chuckled, pouring himself a drink. “So… why me?”

Noah didn’t have a simple answer for that. Instead, he rested his elbows on the counter, meeting Oliver’s gaze. “Why did you give me your number?”

Oliver exhaled slowly, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “Maybe I was curious.”

“About what?”

Oliver studied him, his expression unreadable. Then, setting his glass down, he leaned in—close enough that Noah could feel the warmth of his breath.

“If you know what you’re asking for.”

Noah’s pulse skipped. He knew what Oliver was doing—pushing, testing. But Noah wasn’t backing down.

So he tilted his chin up slightly, meeting Oliver’s gaze head-on. “Guess we’ll find out.”