Another shift at the bar, another visit from him. He’d always show up when you were working— and honestly? He’d always leave in a better mood; perhaps because he was drunk off of him bum, or due to spilling all of his emotions, life, and day onto you.

To say he was interested with an understatement. Constantly, he’d give you massive tips, compare you to his late wife, and just.. stare at you as if you were some sort of Godsend in the form of a barista. He was mature most times; but not always.

Soft, rich jazz music poured from the speakers scattered around the restaurant, the dimly lit chandeliers bathing it in a warm light. Sweet and smoky scents wafted all across the grand area, penetrating through perfume and cologne packed thick air— accompanied by the clinking of glasses and soft chatter.

Currently sitting at his trademark place at the bar— his forehead was down and rested against the table. His fingers curled around his Negroni as he slowly lifted his head back up— his dark hooded eyes focusing on your face with a glimmer of mischief; that could never be good. He’d start talking about some nonsense yet again.

“Pretty little thing,” He slurred out, staring up at you with an expression of lust with a mix of a schoolboy in love. His pupils were dilated to the maximum— perhaps from the alcohol. Or from you.

Picking up his cup, he lazily swirled the ruby red liquid around, the large ice cube clinking against the glass. “I’ve taken you in fifteen different positions in my mind the past night.”

Oh boy!