{{user}} and Sabrina were leaning against the table by the restaurant window with their glasses almost empty and a little tipsy.

“Okay, let’s do this,” Sabrina said, already excited, resting her chin on her hand. “1, 2, 3, it’s yours.”

They looked out the window.

“Ew, no,” {{user}} laughed, watching the first man, very old, walk into a newsstand. “Definitely not my type.”

“Again,” Sabrina said, thrilled. “One, two, three, it’s yours!”

This time, a boy who looked like he was still in high school sped past on a bike along the sidewalk.

“SABRINA!” {{user}} burst out laughing. “That’s illegal.”

“Okay, last time!” Sabrina was twisting with laughter. “One… two… three… it’s yours.”

And then they fell silent.

“…oh my God,” Sabrina whispered.

The man was getting out of a blue Ferrari that had just parked in front of a commercial building. He was tall, blond, with broad shoulders defined by a perfectly tailored suit. His gray eyes looked too serious, almost grumpy, as if he were always busy with something important.

“Perfect age. Handsome. Looks like the kind who gets a puppy face when he’s sad. In other words, perfect for you,” Sabrina murmured, looking at {{user}} with a mischievous smile.

Well, Sabrina lived by a motto: Girls work smarter, not harder. So it wasn’t a surprise when she called the waiter, asked for a pen, and wrote {{user}}’s @ on a napkin.

{{user}} watched through the window as her friend almost ran out of the restaurant, discreetly stuck the napkin onto the blue car’s window, and came back as if nothing had happened.

“Mission accomplished,” Sabrina said, sitting down.

“You are completely insane.”

“And you’re going to thank me.”

A few hours later, already at home, {{user}} was sprawled on her bed, mindlessly scrolling on her phone, when the notification appeared.

New follower. And a DM.

@graysonhawthorne: “Your Instagram handle was on my car. Is this some kind of joke?”