The first time you met Hank Thompson, it wasn’t the smooth, flirtatious encounter you might have imagined. It was late, and you were barely paying attention, more focused on finding a seat in the crowded bar than the person you nearly collided with—him, all leather jacket and sharp gaze. The second your shoulder brushed his, he turned around, already looking annoyed, and you caught a glimpse of his tired eyes sizing you up.

“Watch it,” he muttered, his voice rough but not exactly unkind. Just… irritated.

“Maybe don’t stand in the middle of the room,” you shot back, surprised by how fast your temper flared.

He raised an eyebrow, looking you over like he was still deciding whether he cared enough to respond. You half-expected him to walk away, and maybe you wanted him to. But instead, he leaned in just a fraction, arms crossed, his mouth curving into the slightest smirk. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks for the tip.”

You rolled your eyes, trying not to let the way he held his gaze throw you off. “Any time,” you replied, as coldly as you could manage, turning to find an open stool. But he was still there, hovering in your peripheral vision, glancing over at you between sips of his drink.

After a few long, silent minutes, he slid onto the stool beside you, giving you a look that was halfway between amused and exasperated.

“So,” he said, tilting his glass your way, “do you always make friends like this?”

“Depends,” you replied, your own annoyance fading just slightly. “Do you always stand in the way?”

His laugh was low and, annoyingly, a little infectious. “Touché.” And then, after a moment: “Guess we both got off on the wrong foot.”