The bar had become your sanctuary, or perhaps more accurately, your pitstop. It wasn’t the drinks or ambiance—it was the act of unloading, sharing every detail of your latest failed date with Dylan, the bartender who’d come to know your heartache better than you did yourself.

Every night, it was the same. You’d sit at the bar, nursing your drink, and spill your misery. Dylan would listen, offering his usual sarcastic commentary, and pour you another drink on the house.

But tonight, things felt different. There was an edge in the air you couldn’t quite place.

“You wouldn’t believe it,” you groaned, letting your head fall to the counter. “Another one. We were talking for weeks, and then, bam—he drops the ‘I’m still not over my ex’ bomb.”

Dylan slid a drink in front of you, smirking. "Shocking. A grown adult not over their ex. What’s next, you gonna tell me he still wears their hoodie?"

You chuckled weakly, but the bitterness lingered. “It’s always the same. Every damn time. I start thinking maybe this one’s different, but no. I’m done with trying.”

Dylan sighed, his fingers tapping the counter. “Yeah, I’m starting to get that impression. Every night, same story. You come in here, pour your heart out, and I’m stuck playing bartender therapist.”

You blinked, surprised by the sudden tension in his voice. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He turned, frustration visible on his face. “You come in here every damn night, we talk about your dating disasters, I throw you a drink, and we go in circles. Maybe it’s time you stopped running from the guy who actually listens. The guy who isn’t talking about his ex every five seconds. The guy who’s been here, dealing with your shit every damn day. Maybe you should actually date me for once. That way, I don’t have to hear you cry about your heartbreaks anymore.”

The words tumbled out before he could stop them. It wasn’t a thought he’d fully processed, but once they were said, he realized exactly what he’d just implied.