Here's Trevor

Time slips by in a mix of conversation, laughter, and a couple of drinks.

Monica and I stay at the table, comfortably cocooned in our little corner. She’s animated now, her earlier tension dissolved into the buzz of the evening.

“…and I’m saying, Thalia, you’re just pissed ‘cause no guy’s perfect enough for you,” Monica teases with a grin, pointing her glass at me. “What, you holding out for a six-pack, six figures, six feet, and ready to pop the question?”

I laugh, raising my glass. “Hey, a girl’s gotta aim high.”

“You’re aiming for a unicorn. Better find yourself some cats if you're so demanding,” she shoots back.

“Fiiiine. I’ll settle,” I joke. “Maybe I could... swap one of those sixes for six inches instead.”

Monica gasps in mock scandal. “Wow. You're like the definition of shallow or what now?”

I grin and shrug. “Yeah, well... even that wouldn’t be enough. He’d still have to be able to hold a decent conversation and not be a complete asshole.”

She shakes her head, chuckling. “That’s the requirement you should start with, silly.”

Our laughter’s cut off when I catch a guy at the bar staring—tall, lean, in a button-down and dark jeans, standing like he owns the room. His eyes are locked on me, too intense for comfort. Monica nudges my foot under the table, her lips curving. “Check it, Thalia. Someone’s into you.”

I raise an eyebrow, glancing at her. “That guy? Seriously? He's just a creep, probably.”

“You see, that’s what I was talking about! He might just be the one. Give him a chance!”

Before I can shut her down, he makes the choice for me and weaves through the crowd with a stride that’s confident but stiff, like he’s forcing it.

“Hi,” he says with a smile that’s friendly but just a touch too perfect. He stops at our table, hands resting on the back of the empty chair. “Mind if I join you? You both look like you’re having more fun than anyone else here.”

Ok, not the lamest ice-breaker...

Monica nudges me under the table, her expression practically screaming say yes.

“Not at all,” she says cheerfully, motioning to the seat.

“Thanks,” he says, sliding into the seat. Up close, he’s got a faint scar along his jaw, barely visible, and his eyes—dark, almost glassy—dart around the bar before zeroing in on me. His hand lingers on the chair too long, like he’s anchoring himself. “I’m Trevor,” he says, launching into a story about some dude eating it on the dance floor. “Swear to God, guy must’ve practiced his spins in front of a mirror, then—boom—face-plant mid-move. Tried to play it off like a breakdance. You ever see someone crash that hard?”

I can’t help but laugh. “Was that ‘guy’ you, by any chance?”

He smirks, raising an eyebrow. “Do I look like the kind of person who’d try to breakdance?”

“Absolutely,” Monica chimes in. “You’ve got that ‘secretly loves the spotlight’ vibe.”

“Well,” Trevor says, leaning back with mock seriousness, “if you must know, I was the one who tried to catch him. A tragic hero, really.”

Monica and I laugh, and for a moment, he seems to relax. But then there’s a flicker of something—his gaze shifts slightly, as if checking for something over my shoulder. The movement is quick, but enough to leave an impression.

“So, Trevor,” Monica says, “what brings you out tonight? You don’t seem like the usual barfly.”

He pauses, just a beat too long, before answering. “Oh, you know. Just needed a change of pace. Thought I’d see where the night takes me.”

“And where do you hope it’s taking you?” I ask, my tone teasing.

He grins, but there’s an edge of nervousness behind it. “Well, sitting here with two beautiful women feels like a good start.”

Monica winks at me, enjoying his attention. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“Good to know,” he says, his smile widening. His fingers tap out a rhythm, off-beat from the music.

As the conversation flows, Trevor proves to be funny and engaging, with just the right amount of self-deprecation to seem humble. But every now and then, his responses come with a slight hesitation, as if he’s choosing his words carefully, almost rehearsing them.

At one point, he glances at my drink and says, “So, are you a vodka person or just going for the prettiest drink on the menu?”

“Excuse me,” I say, feigning offense. “This is a classy choice. Pink and fruity is a lifestyle.”

“Ah, my mistake,” he says with a chuckle. “Classy it is. Let me know if you need another one—I’d hate to tarnish your lifestyle.” His eyes linger on my glass a second longer than they should, like he’s studying it.

There’s something disarming about him, even if I can’t shake the nagging feeling that he’s holding something back. Still, Monica’s words from earlier echo in my head: Stop being so picky.

After about an hour, Ryan calls Monica, saying he’s outside. She offers me a ride home, but I shake my head.

“I’ve only got a ten-minute walk,” I say. “Go ahead.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, go. I’ll be fine.”

She stands, giving me a lingering look—a mix of concern and encouragement. “Alright. Have a good time you two.”

“Sure.”

The moment Monica steps out, the air shifts. Trevor’s easy smile lingers, but without my buffer, his attention feels heavier, harder to ignore.

“So,” he says, “just you and me now.”

I take a sip of my drink, debating what to do with Trevor. This guy is... well, pleasant. Cute. Nothing special though. Actually, there is something about him, something mysterious, but I’m not entirely certain I am, or rather—should be, interested in discovering what lies underneath his easygoing facade.

As if hearing my thoughts, Trevor asks, “Can I get us another round?”