Page 8 of In Another Time

“Yeah,” he said simply, leaning one elbow on the edge of the bar. “No pressure though.”

He was so calm, so easy in the way he asked, like it didn’t matter to him whether I said yes or no. But the look in his eyes told me otherwise.

I glanced toward the door, where Sherelle had disappeared not long ago, and then back at Omir. Everything about him felt. . . safe but thrilling at the same time. Like stepping off a ledge, knowing there’d be something solid to land on.

“I. . . don’t usually do this,” I admitted, fidgeting with the stem of my wine glass.

“Neither do I,” he said, his smile softening. “But I think we’ve already figured out tonight isn’t a usual night.”

I bit my lip, weighing the options. Go home, crawl into bed, and return to my perfectly ordered life, or. . . step into the unknown with a man who had me thinking about kisses I hadn’t even had yet.

The club grew quieter with every passing minute as the last few patrons trickled out. I sat at the bar, nursing the last sip of my wine and trying not to overthink what I’d just agreed to. Omir moved easily around the space, thanking customers, chatting briefly with his staff as they began to clean up for the night. He seemed so in his element, as if every inch of this place was an extension of him—comfortable, warm, undeniably magnetic.

I pretended to be absorbed in the soft hum of the music still playing through the speakers, but every time I glanced his way, my pulse quickened. He caught my eye once or twice, flashing that easy, knowing smile of his, and it felt like a promise: Just wait.

Finally, the lights dimmed further, signaling the end of the night. The staff had finished cleaning up, and it was just the two of us left. Omir grabbed his coat and walked toward me, his movements unhurried but purposeful.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice low and smooth, as if we weren’t the last two people in the building.

“Yeah,” I said softly, sliding off the barstool.

He led me to the door, holding it open as I stepped out into the cool night air. There was a black Lambo parked outside that I didn’t notice before, and I just knew it belonged to him. It practically gleamed under the streetlights. I hesitated for a second, taking in the effortless elegance of it.

“Don’t let it intimidate you,” he teased, unlocking the car with a quick press of his key fob.

I laughed lightly, shaking my head. “I’m not intimidated.”

“Good,” he said, opening the passenger door for me. The way he said it sent a shiver down my spine, and I slid into the plush leather seat, letting the scent of polished wood and faint cologne wrap around me.

Omir settled in behind the wheel, and soon, we were gliding through the quiet streets. The city at night was a different kind of beautiful—calmer, more intimate. Streetlights cast soft halos onto the pavement, and the faint buzz of neon signs flickered in the distance.

“You didn’t tell me where we’re going,” I said, breaking the comfortable silence.

He glanced at me, his profile illuminated by the glow of the dashboard. “My place,” he said simply. “Unless you’ve changed your mind.”

I shook my head, surprising even myself with how certain I felt. “I haven’t.”

“Good,” he said again, his lips curving into a small smile.

As we drove, the conversation flowed easily, each exchange peeling back a layer of him I hadn’t expected to see. He talked about his love for jazz and how opening the club had been a dream for years in the making. I found myself admitting things I wouldn’t normally share with someone I’d just met—how workconsumed so much of my life, how I often felt like I was running out of time to figure out what really mattered.

By the time we pulled into the driveway of a modern townhouse tucked into a quiet corner of the city, I felt like I’d known him for longer than just a couple of hours.

Omir parked the car and came around to open my door, extending a hand to help me out. The gesture was small but thoughtful, and it warmed me in a way I wasn’t prepared for. “Come on,” he said, guiding me toward the front door.

Inside, his home was just as effortlessly stylish as he was—clean, organized, earth tones, and subtle hints of personality in the form of framed album covers and scattered books of poetry.

“Welcome,” he said, slipping off his jacket and draping it over a chair.

I sank into the soft cushions, feeling a rare sense of ease wash over me. But before I could fully relax, Omir crouched down in front of me, his hands lightly resting on my ankles.

“What are you doing?” I asked, my voice catching slightly.

“Taking care of you,” he said, his tone steady as his fingers deftly unbuckled the straps of my heels and set them aside.

The intimacy of the gesture caught me off guard, and when he looked up at me, his dark eyes locking with mine, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. His touch was gentle but deliberate, his thumb brushing against my skin as if testing the boundaries of this moment.

I didn’t respond, couldn’t, as he lifted my foot and pressed his lips to my ankle. The sensation sent a jolt of warmth through me, and I fought the urge to pull away—not because I wanted him to stop, but because I was suddenly hyper aware of how vulnerable I felt.

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