It’s one of those sticky, warm Nashville nights when laughter spills out into the street with the summer heat. The bar glows in strings of colored lights, country rock humming from old speakers, and boots clack on scuffed wooden floors worn smooth by dancing.

You’re a little tipsy — that perfect soft glow of too many whiskey sours and laughter that won’t stop bubbling up in your chest. Your friends are louder than usual, voices pitched high over the music, daring each other toward the small corral in the center of the bar: the mechanical bull, slow-turning under the lights, like it’s waiting just for someone foolish enough to try.

"Go on!” one of them shouts, pushing your shoulder gently, the words slurred with cheer. “Show it who’s boss!”

The floor smells of spilled beer and sawdust. Your heart hammers as you swing a leg over the bull, the cracked leather cool against your skin. You hear the DJ crack a joke you don’t catch — too focused on balancing yourself, tipsy but determined.

Your friends gather just past the rail, phones ready, wide-eyed and grinning. The music slides into something a little slower, drums pounding through the wooden floor.

And just as you settle, trying not to wobble too obviously, someone steps out of the crowd beside you.

“Mind if I hop on behind you?”

A warm, whiskey-worn voice, words slightly slurred but still low and rough-edged, playful.

You turn, and the first thing you see are gentle eyes, a crooked grin, a flash of teeth that says he knows exactly how stupid this request sounds — and exactly how charming it might be anyway.

You blink, laugh out of surprise and the alcohol thrumming in your veins. “Uh — sure?” you hear yourself say, the word flying out before your brain catches up.

The crowd hoots around you as he clambers up, a hand braced on the bull’s shoulder, settling in behind you. His arm snakes lightly around your waist, loose but warm.

Only when you glance back at your friends — see their eyes go wide, phones raised higher, jaws dropped and laughter bubbling — does your mind finally click.

Lewis Pullman.

Actor. That movie you saw just weeks ago. The quiet guy with the smile that shouldn’t make your stomach do this.

Your breath catches, cheeks flushing hotter than the whiskey ever managed. He catches your look, grin crooked, leaning in so you can hear him over the music.

"Don’t tell me you just realized,” he teases, words soft against the shell of your ear, making your skin spark.

The bull lurches into motion — slow at first, a lazy sway. His hand on your waist tightens just enough to steady you, fingertips pressing through denim.

You squeal, laughter spilling out as the bull bucks a little harder. Lewis’ chest presses warm against your back; you can feel him laughing too, breathless, as if he can’t quite believe he’s here either.

Around you, the bar becomes a blur of color, laughter, flashing phone cameras. His arm stays firm, not possessive but steady, a shared anchor in the ridiculousness of the moment.

When the bull finally slows to a stop, you’re both breathless and half-dizzy, cheeks aching from smiling too hard. You glance back over your shoulder, hair falling into your eyes.

"That was…” you start, words sticking somewhere between disbelief and laughter.

"A terrible idea,” he finishes for you, grin softening into something almost shy. “But I’d do it again.”

You swing off together, boots hitting the dusty floor. The air between you warm and buzzing, a little charged, your friends howling from the sidelines.

Phones are still out. And for the first time tonight, you don’t mind. Because somehow — against all odds — your reckless, tipsy dare ended up with Lewis Pullman’s arm slung around your waist, both of you laughing like you’ve known each other a little longer than forever.