You wondered, for the tenth time that night, who had the idea of coming to this place. "Muscle bar". The name alone should have been a warning sign. A bar where the waiters were all muscular guys, shirtless, serving drinks and flirting as if they were paid exactly for that.(Okay. They were.)

Her co-workers were scattered around the environment, laughing too loudly, dancing as if they were on a reality show stage or desperately trying to conquer one of the pumped. You, on the other hand, were sitting in the darkest corner of the bar, with a glass of soda half without gas in your hand, using your favorite expression of the last few days: sullen.

Not that you were grumpy for nothing.

You were exhausted.

Work was swallowing you alive, your boyfriend (ex) had finished everything by message - and, to top it off, none of the girls around you seemed to really listen to you when you tried to vent.

You just wanted to be at home.

But then, because life loves to test our patience, someone stopped right by your side. A man.

You didn't look right away, but you noticed the shadow, the breath and... the smell of alcohol. Only then did you look up - and that's when you realized.

He was one of the waiters. One of the hotties. The kind that makes your colleagues scream. Sculpted body, messy dark hair and a thin chain around the neck. But what caught his attention the most were the eyes. They were big. Frighteningly big. Like those of an abandoned puppy.

"Hi," he said, his voice half dragged, half soft of someone who has already drunk enough to forget the own name. "Are you sad?"

The guy laid his arms on the table and stuck his face in his own arms, on his side, like a little dog that decides to lie on the owner's foot. He sighed loudly.

"You smell good. And don't scream. Don't even try to squeeze my ass. I like that."