The bar hums with chatter, the soft clink of glasses, and the faint scent of citrus and spirits.

You slide onto a stool at the counter, pretending casual confidence, though your heart beats faster than usual. He’s there—mixing drinks with a skillful ease, tossing a lemon twist over his shoulder and catching it without missing a beat. His hair slightly tousled, sleeves rolled up, eyes sharp but playful.

The first time you approach, you order a cocktail, simple and unassuming. Oscar glances at you, a subtle smirk tugging at his lips as he mixes your drink. You exchange polite smiles, small talk brushed with hints of amusement. You leave feeling fluttery, almost wishing you had a reason to return.

By the second visit, your pulse races the moment you spot him. This time, the banter is easier—his teasing sharper, his gaze lingering just a second too long as he slides your cocktail across the counter. There’s something in the way he watches you move, subtle but deliberate, like he’s memorizing every reaction, every tiny smile.

The third time, you can’t deny it: you’ve been thinking about him. Your footsteps quicken as you approach the bar, nerves tangled with excitement. He notices immediately, his smirk widening, and he leans slightly closer, elbows resting casually on the counter.

“You know,” he says, voice low, smooth, playful, “if you wanted, you could just ask me for my number on the first drink”