Chase’s POV
The bar is dimly lit, with soft amber lights casting a warm glow over the polished wood and bustling crowd. I lean back in my chair, swirling the ice in my glass, watching as Blake tips his drink back, a laugh slipping from his lips at something I just said. He's tipsy.
It’s surreal.
The night had started awkward as hell, with neither of us knowing what to do or how to act. The restaurant had been stiff at first, every word feeling like it had to be calculated. But then something shifted—maybe it was the dessert, or the way we both admitted it felt weird as hell. Either way, the tension started to fade, and now we’re here, sitting in a bar, laughing and talking like… well, like we’ve done this before.
Except we haven’t. Not like this.
I think back to all the times we’ve be
