The day passes in a blur.

M. has already left before you and is already waiting at the bar. You know it's a bad idea to leave together—people talk. You pack up your bag and head out to meet them.

It's hard to find the bar; you walk into the wrong one at first. The bartender you meet is overly raucous, insisting that you at least have a shot to warm up before you leave.

Why not, you think. You down a shot of whiskey and set out to find M.

They're sitting at a bar, long legs casually crossed, and talking to the bartender. You're already warm from the whiskey, cheeks flushed from the cold.

"I'll get whatever they want," M. says to the bartender. "Put it on my tab."

The bartender, a young, pretty girl with long black hair, looks at you and M. She pours your Negroni and slides it over to you, somewhat sourly. M. tends to have an effect on people. You feel a small burst of pride, like you'd expectantly won something.

M. watches you in bemusement as you drink half your Negroni in a single gulp.

"Sorry I'm late," you tell M. "I got lost."

M. smiles at you and you think, with a flitter of excitement, that this could be the beginning of a bad idea.

"I'm sure you'll think of ways to make it up to me," M. says.

You laugh uneasily. They really are good-looking. You're sure you're not the first coworker getting after-work drinks with M. Their leg grazes yours, a little too purposefully to be accidental. M. is pretty drunk too.

"I've wanted to do this for a long time," M. confesses.

Before you can ask do what? M. is already leaning in, their hand on your thigh, and kissing you. It's pepperminty, warm. M. is a very, very good kisser.

You pull back flushed, after what seems like several minutes.

"Let's get out of here," M. says. "My apartment is nearby."