Elmira
“Not that it’s any of my business, but I’m pretty sure it’s called having a drink because you’re supposed to drink it,” came a lighthearted voice with so much laughter in it.
Tired and nursing a foul mood, El glanced over. There, beside her at the bar, stood a man who, despite his slightly rumpled attire that still carried oil stains and with a faint aroma of motor oil that clung to him, seemed oddly well put together. There was a certain ease about him as if he were the kind of person who didn’t try too hard to impress and yet was utterly magnetic. His brown hair, wild and unruly, had the faintest scent of flowers mixed with the oil, and despite his roughness, he had an undeniable charm about him.
“Staring at it just makes it liquid in a glass. Hardly worth the iron, and frankly, it’s not fair on the drink,” he continued with a shrug and a crooked grin.
It was a ridiculous thing to say, but something about the sincerity of his tone caught her off guard. And that twinkle in his eyes… Her body had responded in a way that she hadn’t felt in a long time.. With yearning, curiosity, and need.
She rolled her eyes. “You seem rather concerned about that,” she said, sizing him up. “You look like you’re sorting that out.”
It wasn’t true, but she wasn’t in the mood for chit-chat. Arman gasped, clasped his chest dramatically, and sank into the barstool next to hers in mock surrender before starting to laugh. When his gaze shifted to her, the bar suddenly felt a little warmer. He looked at her as if she were the only person in the room. Only person in the world, maybe. All her defenses crumbled.
“You look like you just lost your last friend in the whole wide world,” he said, his voice soft, tinged with a knowing sympathy.
El replied without skipping a beat, her tone sharp but not unkind, “You look like you could use one.”
All the noise in the bar, the chatter, the clinking glasses, the rowdy game in the corner, faded into the background. It felt as though the two of them were in a bubble of their own making. What was her body doing? He was sangoran. Worse yet, Illevan.
When the barman placed a tall drink in front of him, he smiled, and the gesture, so small yet so genuine, made her heart tug just a little. It didn’t matter who or what he was.
“I’m sure you’re busy,” he said after a beat, eyes flicking down to his drink, his voice tinged with cautious hope.
The truth was, he was right. El had been caught up in a storm of grief that made her feel both homesick and discarded. A girl she had mentored to become a compound guide, a damn good one too, had caught the black fever and died in the night, leaving El to bury her outside the walls. Thirty years had come and gone, leaving her bitter and hollow. There were no words for the grief. No one could understand it, and she did not want to share.
But here was this man, this mechanic, who, despite his own burdens and looking like he carried the world on his shoulders, could make her laugh with a simple comment. Who didn’t look away when she was just a little broken.
El softened. “Nah, I’m free. Had a date that didn’t bother to show.” It wasn’t a lie. She really had been waiting for someone, but could not for the life of her remember who.
Arman grimaced. “Ouch. Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
Arman pointed at her untouched drink, a quiet question in his eyes. “So, is a non-date all that drives you to make that drink lose its name?”
