The little late night dive bar on the main street has never felt so alive.

The sounds of people shouting over the music that was blasting through speakers, the clinking of glasses up at the bar, the drunken laughs from people who were served one too many drinks — it’s electric.

And Tucker is in the middle of it all with you. You, who has that constant look in your eye like you know something he never will. You, who swears you don’t dance — until you down a couple drinks, and you’re pulling him onto the dancefloor. You, who he’s definitely falling in love with even more by the minute.

He’d only met you because a friend of a friend knew you and told him you were a “born-again wildcard” of sorts. He hadn’t understood what that meant at the time, but when he’d struck up conversation with you, and you started whispering wild things in his ear, he suddenly felt like he agreed with the sentiment.

You took him home with you the first night — you live down the street past the 7/11 on the corner, just close enough that he agreed to spend the night at yours. He’d made sure to memorise everything about you, from the taste of your lips, to the scent of your hair, just in case he never saw you again.

He did see you again, though, at that same dive bar another night. He bought you both a couple rounds, and he felt more alive than he ever had before.

You’re sending mixed signals, but he knows he’d probably hop on the next flight to the other side of the world if you asked him to. As long as he’s with you, keeping the feeling of being young and reckless alive between the two of you. You always seem to ditch him when the wine runs out, but he’s trying not to think about that too much. Not when he can see the glass in your eyes so clearly, when he’s just trying to keep it alive, for crying out loud.

The days are starting to get darker, and he’s starting to get lonelier as they do. But the dive bar is still lit up with noise and movement and emotion, and it’s not been a minute before he can spot you downing your drinks in the corner.

He grins to himself, making note of every little thing about your appearance. You’re wearing those little heels, and he knows you’ll pretend it’s not because he told you he likes them if he asks, so he doesn’t. He pretends not to notice that you’re practically undressing him with your eyes, turning back to the drink he finished an hour ago and didn’t bother to order another.

The next few minutes are a blur of alcohol and adrenaline. Suddenly, you’re grabbing his hand, pulling him out to the floor, and— Aw shit, here we go again.

He’s falling headfirst in love with you all over again, feeling more and more alive as your ankles hit the two step. He laughs softly when you make an offhand comment about dancing in heels, replying with some half-assed quip about how he’s “never tried it”. He’s in far too deep to think about being funny right now.

God, you make his head hurt. But not in a headache way, more in a “you’re so hot and amazing and I’m falling in love with you and don’t know what to do” way.

Moments like this, he remembers hearing that you can be a real diva, and he can’t help but agree. It’s something about you, something about the way you move, the way you talk, the way you are. The way you let him know two much and somehow not enough about how you feel about him. The way you’re cold as Minnesota when he tries to open up and ask you to stick around for once, but hotter than a fever when you dance with him like this.

“I think I’m falling in love with you,” he blurts put suddenly. It’s not the first time he’s spilled his guts to you, and it probably won’t be the last. You’ll brush it off with a joke and a teasing grin, and he won’t mind too much, but part of him is a little pissed that you’ll make him fall so hard for you and ditch him right after, or let him think he’s enough for just long enough for it to crush him when you inevitably leave again.

While he lives to feel this alive with you, he’s still hoping that, for once, you won’t disappear when the wine runs out.