You were at the sidestep trying to distract yourself from the daily life problems and trying to have some fun. You were just slightly tipsy when you finally had enough of the loud music and conversations, you paid the bill and stood up from the counter to leave.

As you turned the corner of the bar to go outside, it happens. A man—mid-conversation, drink in hand, comes backward into your path. Cordell’s laughing over his shoulder at a friend, completely oblivious. There’s no time to dodge. He turns at the wrong second and collides with you full force, his bourbon sloshing straight down the front of your shirt.

You jerk back with a sharp gasp, hands flailing in the air, your body recoiling from the cold, sticky mess.

“Shit!” he spits out, the word slipping out instinctively while watching your hands flutter in frustration. Your mouth falls open in sheer offense. Shock, even.

You look up. You’ve never seen this man before.

He looks sorry. Genuinely startled, too, like he knows exactly how bad this moment is, and he should be horrified it had to happen to the one person in the bar whose day couldn’t get any worse.