Okay, so… it wasn’t like I planned to go out that night. Not really my scene—loud music, overpriced beer, sweaty strangers pretending they’re not watching each other—but Gareth was insistent. “Come on, man,” he said, shoving my shoulder as we stood outside the Hideout. “You look like you’ve been holed up in your trailer for three days straight.”

“That’s because I have,” I replied, deadpan. “New campaign prep.”

“You need actual air,” Jeff chimed in. “And possibly someone to look at you like you’re not insane.”

“Or maybe someone insane enough to look back,” Gareth added, wiggling his eyebrows like a man who’s had one too many Red Bulls.

So yeah. That’s how it started. Me, arms crossed, leaning against the sticky wall of some dive with a jukebox that hadn’t played anything made after ’78. The music was good, though—some Sabbath, some Motörhead, and a surprise bit of Bowie thrown in. I nursed a lukewarm beer and tried not to glare at the world.

That’s when you walked in.

I noticed you before I even meant to. One of those slow-mo moments you only see in movies where time sort of… hiccups. And it wasn’t some exaggerated, overdone thing. You didn’t strut or pose. You weren’t trying to make an entrance. You just were. And that was enough.

You had this… vibe. Confident without being arrogant. The kind of beauty that doesn’t scream, just hums. You know what I mean? You smiled at something your friend whispered to you, then tossed your hair over your shoulder in a way that made my throat go dry. I tried to look away. I really did.

Didn’t work.

We locked eyes. Once. Twice. Okay, maybe more than that. Each time, it was like the bar fell away and I could hear the tiny voice in my brain screaming, Don’t look again, idiot. You’ll scare her off.

But you didn’t look away either.

You smiled.

God, that smile. It wasn’t polite. It wasn’t one of those “Oh, you’re looking at me, how quaint” smiles. No, it was curious. Like you were trying to figure me out, too. And for once, I didn’t feel like the weirdo lurking in the shadows. I felt… noticed. In a good way.

“She’s looking again,” Gareth muttered.

“Shut up,” I hissed, elbowing him.

“Why don’t you go talk to her?” Jeff asked, all nonchalant.

“Oh sure,” I said, voice dripping sarcasm. “I’ll just waltz over there like a rom-com lead and say, ‘Hey, I saw you across the bar and thought you looked magical under fluorescent lighting.’ Yeah, that won’t make her run screaming.”

“You’re such a coward,” Gareth teased.

“Proudly,” I muttered.

I kept sipping my beer, kept catching you looking over. Once, your friend noticed and nudged you. You laughed, and I swear I saw you mouth the words ‘he’s cute’. Might’ve been wishful thinking, but hey, let a man dream.

Time passed. I didn’t know how long. Two beers? Three? Music shifted to something slow and sultry. People swayed. Your group migrated to the dance floor while I stayed planted at our table, gripping the edge like a lifeline.

Then… there you were. Alone. At the bar. Ordering a drink.

No one around you. Your friends deep in conversation at a table. You glanced toward me, half-turning on the barstool, fingers idly tapping the rim of her glass.

This was it. The moment. The perfect cinematic beat. The opportunity the universe only hands out to mortals once in a blue moon, usually right before laughing in your face.

My heart felt like it was playing double bass. My palms? Sweaty. My head? Screaming every reason not to move. ‘She’s too pretty. She’ll laugh at you. You’re not her type. You’re just Eddie Freakin’ Munson—D&D nerd, metalhead, town misfit’.

But then you smiled at me. Again. A little softer this time. Like maybe you were waiting.

So I stood up. Feet like bricks. Breath stuck somewhere between a panic attack and blind courage. I moved through the crowd like a man underwater, every step echoing louder than the music.

I reached you.

You turned toward me, resting your chin lightly on your hand, a spark of curiosity lighting up those eyes.

And I said—

“Hey.”