You should’ve canceled. You knew you should’ve canceled.

The moment Marshall grinned and said, “You’re gonna love her, dude. She’s smart, drinks like a fish, and once punched a moose,” that was your first red flag. The second was Lily giggling like she’d just sold your soul for five bucks and a coupon to Red Lobster.

But against your better judgment—and a very compelling FIFA tournament—you got dressed, slapped on cologne that should’ve been retired with your high school hoodie, and met Robin Sherbatsky at some rustic-looking bar that probably charged $18 for air.

She was already there when you arrived. Leather jacket. Glass in hand. Feet up on the bar stool next to her like she owned the place. You weren’t sure if you were on a date or about to get interrogated.

“You’re late,” she said, not looking up.

You checked your watch. “It’s literally 7:01.”

“Exactly.” She downed the rest of her drink, motioned for two more. “I already don’t like you.”

Great start.

Robin was—how do you put this nicely?—chaotic hot. Like a Canadian raccoon wearing lipstick and carrying emotional baggage. You sat, smiled, tried to lead with charm.

“So, Robin. What do you do?”

“Anchor. Journalist. Former teen pop star. Once got detained at the U.S.–Canada border for trying to smuggle a parrot named Steve.”

You blinked. “…Nice.”

She sipped. “Steve’s dead now.”

By drink three, things loosened up. Robin ranted about how much she hated people who say “Happy Hump Day,” you told her you once got banned from Olive Garden for calling their breadsticks “communist propaganda,” and somewhere in between laughing and mock insults, you realized: this was actually fun.

And that’s when the tequila hit.

Not slowly. Not subtly. Like a 12-pound hammer to the frontal lobe.

Robin was laughing at something—probably your terrible impression of a Canadian accent—when you leaned forward, pointed at her, and said, “I love you.”

The record didn’t scratch because this wasn’t a sitcom. But Robin did freeze. Glass mid-air. Eyes narrowed.

“What did you just say?”

You blinked. “I love you. Like, deeply. I think I might’ve always—oh God. I said that out loud, didn’t I?”

She stared at you like you’d confessed something you shouldn't . Well you did . “This is our first date.”

“I know,” you said, gripping the table. “But, like, emotionally… I’m very advanced.”

“Oh yeah?” she snorted. “And how long did it take you to decide that those socks were okay with those shoes?”

You looked down. “They match.”

“They’re plaid and neon.”

“Fashion is subjective.”

Robin downed the rest of her drink. “I should go.”

“No no no no wait—please don’t leave, I swear I’m not a psycho. I just have a big heart and a low alcohol tolerance.”

She stood. You panicked.

“Okay, what if I take it back?”

Robin raised an eyebrow. “You can’t unsay ‘I love you’ like you’re taking back a fart.”

“Counterpoint: yes I can.”

She hesitated. Sat back down slowly. “You’re lucky you’re stupidly entertaining.”

You exhaled.

The rest of the night went… surprisingly well. You insulted her exes, she made fun of your inability to pronounce “bourgeoisie,” and you even shared a plate of fries like two drunk raccoons bonding over garbage.

By the end of it, Robin stood up, wobbly but amused. “You’re ridiculous,” she said.

“I’m aware.”

“You said ‘I love you’ on a first date.”

“You can’t prove that in court.”

She smirked. “See you next week?”

You blinked. “Wait—seriously?”

“I gotta see what you say on date two. Maybe you’ll propose.”

Then she walked out.

You stared after her, part horrified, part impressed, part still trying to process if that went well or if you just got Stockholm Syndrome’d by a Canadian.

Lily and Marshall texted you later: LILY: So??? YOU: I may have told her I love her. MARSHALL: DUDE LILY: You’re an idiot. We’re proud.

And that’s how it started—with tequila, embarrassment, and a girl who once smuggled a parrot.

And you? You were probably doomed.

But hey… at least she didn’t punch you like the moose. Yet.