It started like any other Thursday night.

The buzzing fluorescent lights overhead still hummed in my ears as I stepped out of the office. Long day, nothing new. Coffee stains on my shirt cuff, deadlines biting at my heels, and the faint echo of my boss’s voice still clinging to the back of my skull. But the guys were already outside by the curb—Ty leaning against the side of his rusted Ford, Drew waving a half-lit cigarette like a wand, grinning.

“Bar?” “Bar.”

We hit that old place down on 7th—Miller’s, the kind of joint that wore its age proudly. Wooden beams blackened by years of cigarette smoke, the stale tang of spilled beer soaked into the floorboards, and some dusty old jukebox in the corner that only ever played Springsteen or the Stones. Booths crowded with familiar faces. Friday was still a day away, but the place was already thrumming with the kind of pre-weekend energy that made your shoulders drop and your lips loosen.

We took a booth near the back, under a wall of old Polaroids and a crooked neon sign that read “Cold Beer & Good Lies.” First round hit the table—whiskey for me, cheap lager for Ty, something in a short glass with a twist of orange for Drew. They started talking shop—client nonsense, broken printers, the usual post-office gripe—but I wasn’t fully in it. Not really.

That’s when I saw you.

Across the bar, framed between the edge of the jukebox and a crooked mirror behind the liquor shelf, you were laughing with your friend. Not just smiling—laughing. The kind that lights up your whole face and makes your shoulders shake just a little. Your head tilted back, eyes crinkled at the corners, fingers wrapped around the rim of your glass.

And I swear, the whole bar faded for a second. Like someone turned the volume down and slowed the reel.

Your hair caught the amber light from the fixture overhead, like it was dipped in fire. Your friend leaned in to say something, and you rolled your eyes with a grin, shaking your head in mock disapproval before glancing around—and that’s when your eyes met mine.

Shit. Was I staring? Yeah, definitely. Look away, dumbass. Look cool.

I fumbled for my glass, took a sip too fast, choked a little. Real smooth.

“Something wrong with your drink, Romeo?” Ty smirked, eyebrow arched. “Nah,” I coughed. “Whiskey just hit back.”

I stole another glance. You were still looking. Not long. Just a flicker of interest, maybe. Or curiosity. Or maybe you were just checking to see if I really was choking. But it felt like more than that. Enough to get my pulse to pick up a little. Enough to make the cheap leather booth feel suddenly too small, too hot.

She’s probably just here with her friend. Not looking for anything. Just a night out. Let it go, man.

But then again… you hadn’t looked away right away. And that smile of yours—there was something in it. A challenge, maybe. Or a dare.

So here I am. Sitting with my buddies, pretending I’m still part of the conversation while my eyes keep drifting across the bar to you. Heart picking up, mouth dry, fingers drumming against the side of my glass. Debating whether to stand up. Whether to walk over. Whether I’m about to crash and burn—or start something I won’t want to stop.

Alright, Vance. On three. One. Two— Shit, she’s looking again. —Three.

Guess I’m about to find out.

⸻

“Hey. Mind if I sit for a second?”