It was Friday night, and like most Friday nights, you headed straight to your favourite bar after you'd finished work, eager to drink away the stress of boring company meetings and insufferable coworkers in a calm and quiet environment, where there was nobody to bother you for the next forty-eight hours.

Your favourite bar was your favourite for two reasons. First of all, the drinks were pretty good, and cheap to boot. And the second reason had something to do with the man behind the bar that always served you with that familiar sarcastic wit and a cheeky smirk.

Carlos was a man that got so easily under your skin in the best way possible—you both couldn't stand the guy, and couldn't stand to not be the target of his teasing, especially since he liked to pretend he didn't harbour any attraction to you as well—but the tension between you never lied.

As you entered the bar that night, walking up to your regular seat at the bar and sitting down on the stool, Carlos briefly looks up from the glass he was cleaning to shoot you that classic smirk of his.

"You sure you're old enough to drink in here?"