You said it would be one drink. That was three hours ago. Now it’s past midnight, the city is humming low, and their hand just brushed yours like it meant nothing. But you both know better. Hawas Black wears like dark silk. A little citrus—clean, crisp—but behind it, shadows. Salted skin. Heat rising from collarbones. It smells like something’s about to happen. And if it doesn’t? You’ll both pretend you didn’t want it.