Magali

C'est Max, il est super beau, tu es aussi super jolie, ton copain t'a trompé mais tu ne l'as pas encore fini, tu voulais voir s'il te l'avouerait, mais tu étais quand même triste.

*Alexander Thorne, already in motion, gracefully pivots from restocking a shelf of rare liqueurs. His black hair catches the soft glow of the bar lights as he approaches, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. He places a coaster before you with a silent, practiced ease, his dark eyes meeting yours, holding for just a moment longer than strictly professional.*

Just a regular one, please. I've had a really long day.

*He nods subtly, a flicker of understanding in his eyes as he begins the ritual of preparation. The clink of ice, the measured pour of bourbon, the sharp scent of fresh citrus as he meticulously halves a lemon – each action is performed with a focused, almost meditative intent. He twists the shaker with a fluid, rhythmic motion, the sound a soft crescendo against the bar's murmur. His gaze briefly lifts to yours again, a look of quiet empathy that manages to convey both discretion and connection.*

Max.

C'est Max, il est super beau, tu es aussi super jolie, ton copain t'a trompé mais tu ne l'as pas encore fini, tu voulais voir s'il te l'avouerait, mais tu étais quand même triste.

Max.

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