What's a successful life?
For some, it's about checking off all the big milestones—dream job, perfect relationship, fancy car, the kind of life that looks flawless on Instagram.
For others, success might just mean paying rent on time or having a fridge stocked with more than just ketchup packets.
Me? I like to pretend I'm this laid-back creative genius who's got everything under control. Truth is, I'm stuck in that awkward no-man's land where I know exactly what my latest logo design needs to be great—but the client? They just want to keep changing it. Again. And again. And again.
So here I am, procrastinating like a champ, pretending to be deep in thought while actually just scrolling through memes and wondering if this is the pinnacle of success.
I'm Damian Greeves, freelance logo designer. And yes, this is pretty much my life right now.
Ding.
Damian's phone buzzed on the edge of his desk, right next to his third cup of coffee and a crumpled sketch of the logo he no longer cared about. He didn't look at the screen right away. He already knew. He could feel it in his bones.
Another message from the client.
He exhaled slowly, picked up the phone, and opened it.
"Actually, we want to go with the very first design you sent."
"FUUUUUCK!!!"
His voice exploded through the house, loud enough to rattle the blinds. He shot up from his chair, nearly knocking over the coat rack beside his desk.
He waved his phone in the air like it had personally insulted his ancestors.
"Why—just why?! Twenty goddamn revisions, three weeks of changes, two mental breakdowns, and a font hunt that aged me five years—and now you want the first one?!"
He dropped back onto his chair, legs spread, arms hanging dramatically over the sides, staring at the ceiling like it might offer divine explanation.
It did not.
The house, still and silent, offered only the hum of his overworked monitor and the quiet fizz of his abandoned soda can.
The moment the realization hit him—that the war was over, the client had chosen, the revisions were done—Damian sat up straight.
He squinted at the screen.
Then back at the message.
Then slowly… ever so cautiously… allowed himself a grin.
It started small. The kind of grin a man wears after narrowly escaping death. Or taxes.
And then it grew.
"It's done," he whispered. "It's finally fcking done.*"
He stood up and pointed both hands at the ceiling like some victorious gladiator.
"Ladies and gentlemen, after three weeks of pure design hell, I, Damian Greeves, have emerged victorious."
No applause.
Just the sound of his own voice echoing across the quiet halls of his house—but he didn't care. He was too busy cueing his own mental soundtrack. Something triumphant. With drums.
He grabbed his phone, flung open Spotify, and hit play on the most dramatic celebration playlist he had.
He marched into the kitchen like a man on a mission. Victory playlist blaring in the background, socks sliding on polished wood, he flung open the fridge door with all the confidence of a man about to reward himself.
Empty.
A lonely bottle of mustard. Half a lemon in plastic wrap. A suspicious container he didn't dare open.
"No. No, no, no…" Damian muttered, crouching lower like the snacks might be hiding behind the fridge light. "Where's the pizza? The beer? The joy?"
He slammed the fridge shut and opened the freezer.
Ice cubes and… was that frozen edamame?
He stared into the cold void of his post-project celebration.
"Unbelievable. I finish a three-week design death march, and the universe can't even throw me a bag of chips?"
He leaned against the counter, defeated.
Damian stared at the fridge one last time, as if hoping snacks would magically appear out of guilt. They didn't.
"Fine," he muttered, pushing off the counter. "If I can't celebrate like a king at home, then I'll drink like a mildly depressed peasant at a half-decent bar."
He grabbed his hoodie off the back of the chair, shoved his phone and wallet into his pockets, and slipped on the first pair of sneakers that didn't look too judgmental.
As he stepped out into the cool evening air, the tension in his shoulders started to fade. The job was done. The nightmare client was (hopefully) satisfied. And tonight, for once, he didn't have to stare at fifty open Illustrator tabs or re-evaluate his life choices over typography.
He didn't need company.
He just needed one good drink, maybe a greasy burger, and a seat at the far end of a bar where no one would ask him what he did for a living.
Damian headed downtown, hands in his pockets, letting the city's low hum wrap around him like static. Somewhere out there was a plate of fries with his name on it.
And maybe—just maybe—a quiet moment of peace.
The bar was tucked away on a quieter street, the kind of place you wouldn't find unless you were looking for it—or had good taste. Dim lighting, polished dark wood, smooth jazz playing low in the background. A little classy, a little worn-in, but not cheap by any means.
Damian slipped onto a stool near the corner of the bar, not too far from the shelves of well-aged liquor, but far enough from the door to feel detached from the world outside.
He ordered a whiskey—neat. The bartender didn't ask which kind. Regulars didn't have to.
The first sip hit like a warm exhale, melting into his chest and drawing a quiet sigh from his lips.
He leaned back slightly, letting the amber glow of the bar lights soften the edges of his thoughts.
"This," he murmured to himself, "is how it should be."
No spreadsheets. No rushed deadlines. No client saying, 'Can we try the first version again?' Just a glass of good whiskey, a nice chair, and a few uninterrupted minutes to bask in the glory of surviving the week.
"Honestly," he added, staring into his drink, "everyone should be legally required to treat themselves after surviving a nightmare project. Some people get a bonus. I get... fermented grain and solitude."
He raised the glass slightly, toasting no one in particular. "To unreasonable revisions, and the poor souls who tolerate them."
He took another sip, savoring the quiet.
And then—
The stool beside him shifted.
He glanced sideways, casual by instinct. A woman took the seat next to him. Not drunk. Not loud. Just… quietly devastated.
Her eyes were rimmed red, makeup carefully repaired but not enough to hide the storm she'd clearly just walked through. She sat straight, composed on the surface—but her hands trembled slightly as she clutched her purse in her lap.
Damian looked back at his glass.
Great. Now there were two disasters drinking alone in a nice bar.
Damian barely had time to register the trembling woman beside him before the bar door swung open again.
A man entered, scanning the room with a mixture of urgency and desperation. His eyes locked on the woman next to Damian.
"Sera, wait—" he called softly but urgently, stepping closer.
The woman—Seraphina Cross—tensed, then slowly stood up. Her gaze locked on the man with sharp, fiery intensity.
"It's not what you think," he said, voice pleading.
Seraphina's jaw tightened. Without hesitation, she swung her fist hard and fast, connecting with his face in a sharp crack that echoed slightly in the bar.
He staggered back, rubbing his cheek, eyes wide in shock.
"I saw you," she spat, voice cold as ice. "Kissing her. Almost half naked. It's not like what I think it is? Really?"
The whole bar went quiet for a moment.
Damian watched, glass halfway to his mouth, caught somewhere between impressed and slightly horrified.
Seraphina's eyes were cold fire as she turned back to the man.
"FYI," she said slowly, each word deliberate, "I don't care about you anymore. You're done."
Damian, sensing the tension climbing fast, stood up quietly. He grabbed his glass, ready to move to another seat—anywhere but in the middle of this.
But just as he took a step away, a firm hand caught his wrist.
He looked down to see Seraphina gripping him—not tightly, but enough to stop him.
She fixed the man with a steely glare. "Listen, I already have someone. Someone who actually deserves me. And that's how easy it is to replace you."
Damian blinked, caught off guard.
"What? Me? As in—me, me?" His voice cracked slightly, disbelief lacing every syllable.
Seraphina glanced at him briefly, lips twitching as if to smirk, then turned back to the man.
"Yeah, you heard me."
Damian's mind raced. He just wanted a quiet drink, not front-row seats to a breakup showdown.
Without another word, Seraphina grabbed Damian's wrist and started pulling him toward the door.
"Hey! Wait!" Damian protested, clutching his glass tightly, caught between surprise and confusion.
Just as they reached the threshold, the bartender called out with a grin, "Hey! Leave the glass if you're going out! Can't have you taking our whiskey for a walk!"
Damian glanced down at his nearly full glass, then back at Seraphina, who didn't even look back.
"Noted," she said over her shoulder as she tugged him outside.
Damian blinked, the warm buzz from the bar suddenly replaced by the cool night air—and a completely unexpected new adventure.
Outside the bar, the night air wrapped around them—cool, sharp, and far too real.
Seraphina still had her hand wrapped around Damian's wrist as they stopped just under a flickering streetlamp. She was breathing hard, flushed from adrenaline. Damian, on the other hand, was blinking in disbelief, his half-full whiskey glass still miraculously upright in his other hand.
"Hey—hey—HEY!" Damian finally said, tugging slightly. "Could we slow down for like, five seconds? I'm not exactly built for high-speed emotional kidnappings."
Seraphina whipped around, eyes narrowed. "Why did you follow me?"
Damian stared at her, then glanced down at their connected hands. Then back up at her. Then pointed at himself.
"Me? Follow you?" he said, his voice rising in disbelief. "Lady, you grabbed me like I was some kind of emergency emotional support person and dragged me out of there mid-sip."
He held up the whiskey glass like it was evidence in a courtroom. "This—this right here? This was supposed to be my treat-yourself drink. Now it's a hostage."
Seraphina blinked, thrown for a beat by his deadpan delivery. She let go of his wrist slowly, like just realizing she'd still been holding on.
Damian rubbed his arm, mock-injured. "Also—strong grip, by the way. Are you part-time arm wrestler or just professionally angry?"
Her lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close.
"Sorry," she muttered, brushing her hair behind her ear. "That was… dramatic. I didn't mean to pull you into that."
Damian looked at her for a long moment, then said with a shrug, "Well, you did. But hey, I've been through worse. One time a client said Helvetica felt 'too emotional.' So, you know, nothing surprises me anymore."
That earned him a small laugh—just a breath of one, but real.
He took a sip of his whiskey and added, "So… now what? You going to keep kidnapping random bar patrons to prove points to your ex, or was I just lucky tonight?"
Seraphina exhaled, finally letting her shoulders drop. "Look, I didn't mean to drag you into my disaster. I just… panicked."
Damian took another slow sip of his drink, then arched a brow. "Panic makes most people cry or call their therapist. You? You commit social homicide and take hostages."
Seraphina smirked. "You looked calm. Like you wouldn't freak out."
"Well, I was calm because I didn't think I'd be cast in a live soap opera tonight."
He tilted his glass toward her. "Next time, I'm sitting on the other end of the bar."
She let out a real laugh now, the kind that surprised even her. The tension in her chest unraveled just a little.
"I owe you a drink," she said, crossing her arms and leaning against the nearest light post.
Damian considered that. "Two drinks, technically. One for the emotional trauma, one for the whiskey I didn't get to enjoy in peace."
Seraphina rolled her eyes. "You're really milking this, huh?"
"Hey, I have rent to pay and a caffeine addiction to maintain. I'll take free drinks where I can get them."
They stood there for a beat in comfortable silence.
Then Damian added, "So… is the ex gonna come storming out here next? Because if he tries to punch me, I just want it noted—I was an unwilling participant."
"I think you scared him off just by existing," she replied dryly. "He never liked guys with good posture, better eyebrows, and… those deep eyebags. Very threatening to his fragile ego."
Damian squinted. "Okay, wow. So I'm a sleep-deprived Greek god now?"
Seraphina raised a brow. "Don't push it."
Damian rubbed the back of his neck and shifted awkwardly on his feet. "Well… I'm gonna go now. Pretty sure I can't show my face in that bar again without someone asking if I'm your rebound."
He gave a small, crooked grin. "So much for my little self-treat. Whiskey, peace, solitude—totally ruined. Ten out of ten would not recommend."
He took a step back, ready to turn around.
But Sera didn't let go.
Not immediately.
She looked at him—really looked at him this time. The slightly disheveled hair, the faded hoodie, the very confused expression… and those eyebags.
The guy looked like he hadn't slept in days, and somehow still had the nerve to be dryly funny.
Sera finally let go of his hand—but instead of stepping back, she pulled a sleek business card from her purse and held it out to him.
"I own a skincare line," she said, cool and composed again, like the breakup drama never happened. "If you're interested, I can send you something. You know…" —her eyes flicked briefly to his face— "to help with the eyebags."
Damian blinked at the card, then looked up at her with a raised brow.
He slipped off his hoodie, revealing his full face under the glow of the streetlamp. Tousled hair, a faint five o'clock shadow, and deep, undeniably present eyebags. He squinted slightly, exaggerated the angle, and gave her a flat, deadpan look.
"So what—you think I'm ugly?" he said. "This"—he gestured to his face like he was presenting a masterpiece—"is peak post-client-war glory. And for the record, eyebags are just… character depth. I just need sleep, not salvation."
She gave him a once-over, unimpressed.
He took the card anyway, flipping it between his fingers with idle curiosity—until his eyes landed on the name.
He froze.
Then blinked.
Then stared at the card like it was a cursed object.
"Wait," he said slowly, "Seraphina Cross? You're Seraphina Cross?"
She raised an eyebrow, arms crossed. "...Yes?"
Damian's mouth dropped open. He slowly raised an accusing finger, like he was confronting a supervillain.
"YOU'RE THAT Seraphina Cross?! The client from hell?!"
Her eyebrows shot up. "Excuse me?!"
He waved the card in the air. "You're the one who made me go through twenty-one rounds of revision just to end up picking the very first logo I sent?!"
Sera blinked. "Wait. You're… D.G. Creative?"
Damian threw his head back in disbelief. "Oh my god. Of all the bars in the city, I had to end up in yours."
They stared at each other in mutual shock.
Damian sighed heavily, rubbing his face. "First you ruined my drink. Now I find out you're the client who ruined my sleep schedule."
He pointed at the card again. "You don't need to send me skincare. You need to send me therapy."
Sera crossed her arms, lifting a brow. "Well, maybe if you made better logos, you wouldn't need so much therapy."
Damian gasped like she'd slapped him. "Ma'am. That logo was clean. That logo was class. That logo was on trend! You people don't want a designer. You want a psychic."
"Oh, please. You put a leaf inside a circle and called it elegant."
"It was elegant!" he fired back. "Minimalist! Earth-inspired! The font was practically massaging your aura!"
Sera couldn't help it—she laughed. A full, clear sound that caught Damian off guard. She covered her mouth a second too late, realizing she was still technically heartbroken. Or at least supposed to be.
Damian squinted at her. "You're way too cheerful for someone who just got cheated on."
She shrugged, still grinning. "I think you helped more than you realized. That stunt with your hoodie? Kind of cathartic."
"Oh good," he muttered. "Glad I could be part of your healing process. Want me to do a dramatic monologue next?"
She tilted her head. "You're not that bad, you know."
He smirked. "You mean physically? Or personality-wise?"
"Both."
His smile flickered—teasing, but edged with something unreadable. "Careful, Ms. Cross. That almost sounded like a compliment."
"Don't let it go to your head. I'm still not paying you for the extra revisions."
"You already did." He held up the card again with a sigh. "With my sanity."
A beat passed.
Then Damian tucked the card into his pocket.
"Well," he said, glancing down the street, "guess I'll find another bar and finish grieving over my self-treat. Unless you plan to drag me somewhere else?"
Sera lingered as Damian shifted, clearly about to leave. She didn't know why she felt a tug of hesitation—maybe it was just the ridiculousness of the night, or maybe it was how his dry humor and deadpan banter had weirdly calmed her down. Even if they were practically strangers, there was something oddly comforting about him.
"Hey," she called, making him pause. "You hungry?"
Damian blinked at her.
"There's a 24-hour ramen place just down the street. No exes. No drama. My treat," she said casually. "Call it a thank you. Or maybe skincare consultation fees."
Damian stared at her for a moment, eyes unreadable beneath the streetlight. Then he chuckled softly, rubbing the back of his neck.
"That's tempting," he said. "But I think I've had enough sodium and emotional whiplash for one night."
Sera tilted her head. "You sure?"
He nodded. "Yeah. Let's… save the ramen for next time."
He said it lightly, but the words felt like a soft closing of a door. Like he already knew he didn't plan on a 'next time.'
Sera gave a small smile, tucking her hair behind her ear. "Alright. Thanks again, hoodie guy."
Damian smirked, stepping back. "Anytime, chaos girl."
He turned, hoodie back over his head, steps fading into the city night.
But as he walked away, his fingers brushed the business card in his pocket—the one that said Sera Cross in clean gold letters.
His last client. Twenty-one revisions. Three weeks of madness. A woman he never saw in person, only knew through panicked emails, passive-aggressive comments, and midnight edit requests.
Of course. Of course it was her.
Damian let out a quiet groan, dragging a hand down his face.
"Seriously? Out of all the bars in the city..." he muttered under his breath. "First, I get roped into her breakup scene. Then I find out she's the reason I aged five years chasing the perfect font."
He stared up at the sky for a moment like it owed him an apology.
"I swear, universe... never again. I don't care how pretty she is, or how good her skincare line probably is. I'm done with drama. I'm a simple man. I just want peace. And maybe a burger."
He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and picked up his pace, eyes fixed forward.
And just like that, he vanished into the night—determined to dodge any more plot twists.
Or so he hoped.