I Never Said I Was Trying to Play Savior

With quiet determination, she made her way to the counter and slipped onto a high stool. She raised her hand, catching the bartender’s attention.

“What’ll you be having, ma’am?” the bartender asked, his polite smile revealing straight, pearly white teeth. His eyes, a warm shade of brown, held a subtle curiosity as he took in her slightly disheveled appearance.

“I’ll be having the strongest sh*t you’ve got,” Cynthia responded, her lips curling into an awkward smile. Her shoulders slumped slightly, betraying the exhaustion she tried so hard to hide.

The bartender hesitated for a brief moment before nodding. “Alright, ma’am. That’d be whiskey shots.”

He grabbed a bottle of premium whiskey, the amber liquid glistening under the bar lights, and poured a neat shot into a small glass before placing it in front of her.

Cynthia didn’t waste a second. She grabbed the glass, tilted her head back, and swallowed it in one swift gulp. The burn in her throat was sharp but welcomed, a distraction from the deeper ache inside her. She exhaled and placed the glass back onto the smooth marble counter with a sharp *click*.

“Another,” she said, her voice unwavering.

The bartender’s brows furrowed slightly, but he complied, refilling her glass. He watched as she downed the second shot with the same ruthless efficiency.

“Ma’am, Is everything oka—”

“Pour me another,” she cut him off, her fingers tapping against the counter impatiently.

The bartender hesitated, but when she reached for the bottle herself, his brows lifted in surprise. In no time, she poured another shot and downed it just as quickly as the first two.

Cynthia exhaled sharply, the alcohol settling into her veins like liquid fire. Her body, which had been stiff with tension, started to loosen. The storm in her mind was still there, but it was growing dull, numbed by the whiskey.

That was when she decided that the glass was pointless. She lifted the bottle, prepared to drink straight from it.

Before the rim could touch her lips, a strong hand reached out and stopped her.

“That’s enough. You don’t want to hurt yourself.”

The deep, masculine voice sent a jolt of shock through her system. Her fingers instinctively tightened around the bottle before she whipped her head up, eyes flashing with irritation.

“Excuse you?” she snapped, annoyance flaring in her chest. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Then her eyes landed on the person standing beside her, and the breath caught in her throat.

“You?!” Her voice wavered in disbelief. Her grip on the bottle slackened slightly as she blinked up at the familiar face. “How…? What are you doing here? How are you in Russia— halfway across the world?”

Standing before her, tall and composed, was Ethan.

A date from a few weeks ago.

A date that had ended in ways she hadn’t expected and had tried to forget.

“I’m here to save you from yourself,” Ethan said, his expression calm but firm as he gently took the bottle from her grasp and set it down on the counter. “We need to talk.”

Cynthia scoffed, leaning back slightly. “Talk?” she echoed, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “What is there to talk about, Ethan?”

He slid onto the stool beside her, watching her carefully. “A lot, actually. But first, let’s get you some water.”

Cynthia rolled her eyes, but a part of her couldn’t ignore the way her heart had started to pound. “I don’t need water,” she muttered. “I need whiskey.”

“You need clarity and help,” Ethan countered, nodding to the bartender, who quickly grabbed a glass of water and set it in front of her. “Just take a sip.”

Cynthia glared at him, but something in his gaze— something steady, unwavering— made her reach for the glass. She took a slow sip, feeling the coolness of the water chase away the burning sensation left by the whiskey.

Ethan exhaled, leaning forward slightly. “You want to tell me what’s really going on?”

"On as how?" She let out a dry laugh. “Oh, you mean besides the fact that I was about to enjoy my evening alone with a bottle of fine whiskey before you swooped in like some knight in shining armor?”

He gave her a knowing look. “Cynthia.”

Her smirk faltered. She looked away, her fingers playing with the rim of the glass. Silence stretched between them for a long moment before she sighed. “It’s just been… a long day.”

Ethan studied her, his sharp blue eyes searching hers. “A long day, or something more?”

Cynthia clenched her jaw, but she didn’t answer.

"Fine I'll say it," Ethan leaned in slightly worry evidentin his face. "It's all over the news, the way he treats you like some trash, beats you and all."

“I know you don’t like talking about things, but 'this'" he gestured at the half full bottle of the whiskey, "'this'— drinking yourself unconscious isn’t the solution.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “And what is? Talking about my feelings?” she mocked. “You think that’s going to magically fix things?”

“No,” he admitted. “But it might help.”

Cynthia scoffed, shaking her head. “You don’t get it.”

“Then make me get it,” Ethan challenged, his voice low but firm. “I’m here, Cynthia. I’m listening.”

Something in his tone made her pause. The irritation in her chest slowly unraveled into something else— something raw and unsettling. She had spent so long keeping everything bottled up, pushing people away before they could see the cracks beneath her surface.

But Ethan wasn’t looking away. He wasn’t walking away.

He was surprisingly there with her, out of all people.

Cynthia swallowed hard, staring down at the counter. For a brief moment, the words hovered at the tip of her tongue— the truth, the weight crushing her, the pain clawing at her chest. Every atom in her body screamed to let it out, to let him in.

But she didn’t.

She clenched her jaw and exhaled sharply, forcing the lump in her throat down. “You’re wasting your time,” she said flatly, lifting her gaze to meet his. “I’m not your problem, Ethan.”

His brows knitted together in concern. “Cynthia, you—”

“No,” she cut in, her tone sharp enough to slice through whatever sympathy he was about to offer. “You’re not my boyfriend. We’re not even friends. We had one date— one. That doesn’t mean you get to play my savior.”

Ethan stiffened, but he didn’t back down. “I never said I was trying play savior.”