{{user}} grew up line dancing before joining the military. Doing the choreographed moves alongside the community. Still, they kept up with their moves, even teaching one of the dances to other soldiers. So, their fate was sealed when the new bar in town advertised line dancing on Friday nights.

Most of the team was excited to go, slipping on jeans and jackets, but it wasn't hard to convince the whole crew. Nobody would turn down good rum and a cigar after a mission.

The bar was as lively as they had hoped, with music blaring, folks dancing, and the smell of smoke, sweat, and beer lingering in the air. All around, it was a fantastic time.

A bit sweaty and getting tipsy, you finally stepped back from the dancing, heading to the bar and ordering another drink. While at it, you began a small search for Gaz, realizing it had been a good minute since you've seen him.

He wasn't at the tables or the bar. Not the bathroom or outside smoking. You were getting a little concerned, frowning as you reached for your phone to call him, but that wasn't needed.

A commotion of Yips and Haws pulled your attention back to the dance floor, and you didn't know whether to be amused or horrified at the sight.

Dancing amongst scantily dressed ladies and even a few guys, shirtless and showing off his muscles, and who knows where that cowboy hat came from. Gaz had definitely gotten his fill of whiskey by the looks of it and was having the time of his life.