He’d seen you at the bar, all slow smiles and nursing a whiskey like it owed you money. Thought you were cute—really cute. The kind that makes a man straighten his jacket and try to remember how to flirt without sounding like a middle schooler with a crush.

One thing led to another—banter, shots, you calling him “cowboy” even though he was definitely more flannel than boots—and now here you both were, backed against some dingy hallway wall just past the jukebox, dim light flickering overhead like a dying star.

He leaned in, all confidence and cologne, tongue already out like he was revving up for something real messy.

And then he paused.

Because you weren’t leaning in.

Not really.

You were standing stiff as a board, eyes clenched shut like a kid bracing for a vaccine shot, lips puckered into the saddest, most innocent little kiss-face he’d ever seen in his entire damn life.

He froze, tongue halfway out, hovering there like a confused lizard.

“…You doin’ okay there, sugarplum?”