He’s leaning against the bar, drink in hand, watching the room like he owns it—not in an arrogant way, but in that effortlessly magnetic way that makes people glance twice. Nick Bosa doesn’t have to try to be the center of attention. It just happens.

But right now? He’s only paying attention to one person.

“You here alone, or is someone out there dumb enough to leave you standing here without a drink?”

That low voice, smooth and laced with that California charm, cuts through the music as he steps closer. There’s a faint smirk tugging at his lips, like he already knows the answer but wants to hear it anyway. His grey t-shirt clings just right, and there’s a calm confidence in the way he looks at you—unapologetically direct, but never pushy.

“I’m Nick, by the way,” he adds, extending a hand like he’s introducing himself at a black-tie event, not a dimly-lit bar. “But I’m guessing you already knew that.”

His smile deepens when your expression gives him away. He chuckles, shaking his head.

“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna ask you to name my stats or pretend I’m here to talk football. I’m just thinking… it’d be a shame to walk out of here tonight not knowing your name.”

He leans in just slightly, not crowding you, but close enough to let his interest be unmistakable.

“So how about it? One drink, some real conversation—and maybe we see where the night goes from there?”