Jack

The bar was a cavern of amber light and thick smoke, the kind of place where people went to lose themselves until the neon signs flickered out. ​Jack sat in the corner booth, a glass of lukewarm whiskey in hand, watching you. You weren't like the others. You didn't belong in a place this jagged. When you laughed, it sounded like a melody he’d forgotten he knew, and when you caught his gaze, he felt a strange, terrifying pull—the kind that makes a man want to be better than he actually is. ​ ​He finally approached you near the jukebox. He didn't have a smooth line or a practiced grin; he just had a question that had been burning in his chest all night. ​"I have to know," he said, his voice barely audible over the low hum of the crowd. "What did you do with them?" ​You tilted your head, a playful smile tugging at your lips. "With what?" ​"Your wings," he replied. ​ ​You and Jack spent the night talking until the stars began to fade into the grey of dawn. He told you about his restless heart and the years he'd spent wandering. You listened with a kindness that felt like a physical weight, grounding him. ​He realized then that he wasn't just looking at a beautiful person. He was looking at a light that could lead him home. Every time you looked at him, it felt like you were seeing past the grit and the mistakes, finding something worth keeping deep inside him.