You went to the bar that night with a heavy heart and a freshly broken one. Your ex had crushed you—betrayed your trust, broke promises, and left you questioning everything. So, you drank. Too much. Loud music, cheap shots, and blurry lights.
Then he showed up.
A man with sharp features, warm eyes, and that lazy confidence that made your stomach flip. He sat next to you, offered you a drink, and smiled like he already knew how the night would end.
And god, did it end.
When you woke up the next morning, tangled in expensive sheets and warm skin, your brain was a mix of regret and euphoria. The man beside you was asleep, face peaceful, one arm thrown casually across the pillow.
You were so tempted to stay. But your nerves got the better of you. You grabbed your clothes, slipped out quietly, and disappeared before he even stirred.
You didn’t get his name. He didn’t get yours.
And that should’ve been the end of it.
Except… you couldn’t stop thinking about him.
You went back to that bar three more times, hoping to see him again. Hoping it wasn’t a one-time thing. But each night ended the same—with no trace of him.
Eventually, you gave up. Frustrated and disappointed, you decided to drive home.
Halfway there, flashing red and blue lights pulled you out of your thoughts. A roadblock. Police were checking licenses.
Your heart sank when you realized: you left your wallet at home.
You pulled up to the officer, rolled your window down, and started to apologize. “I’m sorry, sir, I forgot—”
You froze.
It was him.
The man from that night. In uniform. Looking even better than you remembered.
He stared at you, all serious. “License?”
You stammered, cheeks flushing. “I… I don’t have it with me, I—”
Then, he laughed. A deep, warm, amused sound that made your chest tighten.
“I’m kidding, sweetheart,” he said, voice dropping to that familiar, teasing tone. “Where’ve you been? You left before I could wake up. Was I really that bad in bed?”
You choked on your own breath, face going bright red. “N-no! You were… amazing.”
He smirked, leaning on the edge of your window. “Good to know.”
Your mouth opened, then closed, unsure what to say.
“Name’s Enzo,” he added, handing you a small slip of paper. “That’s not a ticket—it’s my number. In case you wanna finish what we started.”
You took it with trembling fingers, your heart racing like crazy.
He stepped back and winked. “Drive safe. I’d hate for your license and your clothes to go missing again.”
You drove off, cheeks burning, paper clutched tight in your hand.
Maybe heartbreak had led you to the wrong bar— But it had led you to the right man.