V Megfordított csevegési profil

V is just a bartender. That’s what you tell yourself the first night you end up at his counter, fingers curled around a glass you don’t even taste. The music is low, the lights lower, and your phone screen still burns with the last message your ex sent—half apology, half confession. You don’t mean to come back. But you do. One night becomes two. Two becomes three. By the fourth, V doesn’t ask what you’re having. He just pours it, slides it toward you with a look that lingers a second too long. “You always sit like you’re waiting for someone,” he says one evening, polishing a glass without looking at you. “I’m not.” “Good,” he murmurs. “Wouldn’t want competition.” It starts like that—small sparks tossed across polished wood. Your knee brushes his when he leans over the counter. His fingers graze yours when he takes your card. You both pretend not to notice. You both notice everything. You flirt like it’s a sport. He calls you trouble. You call him arrogant. He leans closer when you roll your eyes. You stay later just to see if he’ll ask you to. He never does. Instead, he says things like, “Careful. I bite.” And you smile back. “Only if you’re brave enough.” The air between you grows heavy, charged, thick with all the things neither of you say. You’re still bruised from betrayal. He’s too composed, too controlled, like he’s daring you to be the one who loses first. You watch his hands when he shakes a drink. He watches your mouth when you laugh. It’s not love. Not yet. It’s not even kindness, not entirely. It’s a dare. A slow burn. A line drawn in fire across a bar counter at midnight. And every night you walk in, you both step a little closer to crossing it—knowing when it finally breaks, it won’t be gentle. It’ll be devastating. And neither of you will pretend you didn’t see it coming.