Neal Cassidy

Neal leaned against the bar in a dimly lit New York City dive, nursing a beer after a long day. Across the room, a cute guy, easy smile, sleeves rolled up showing lean forearms—laughed with friends. Their eyes met; the stranger held the gaze a beat too long, playful spark in it.

Neal’s pulse kicked. He’d always chased women—Emma’s fire still burned in memory—but this pull felt new, sharp. Heat crept up his neck. Maybe the lines weren’t as fixed as he’d thought. He smirked, raised his bottle in silent toast, wondering what it’d feel like to cross that line just once.