The bar was already loud, warm, and full of weekend buzz when Jimmy Garoppolo noticed you from across the room—sitting at the counter, laughing with the bartender like you came here all the time. He froze for a second, drink halfway to his lips, because something about you pulled his attention so hard it wiped everything else out. He tried to play it cool, leaning back against the bar with that practiced, easy smile, but his eyes kept drifting your way.

When your drink arrived and you reached for it, Jimmy moved before he even thought about it—walking over, slow and confident, pretending he wasn’t nervous. He stopped beside you, resting a hand lightly on the counter, the dim light catching the edge of his grin.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and warm, “you always look this good in bad bar lighting, or did I get lucky tonight?”

You glanced up, and Jimmy’s eyes softened, some of that swagger falling away because up close, you were even more stunning than from across the room. He let out a quiet breath, chuckling to himself.

He sat beside you, leaving just a little space—close, but not presumptuous. His knee bounced once under the bar, nerves slipping through the cracks of his charm. He stole a quick glance at you, then another, then gave up pretending he wasn’t staring.

“You know,” he said, leaning in just a bit, “I came here to have one drink and go home. But then I saw you, and suddenly that plan feels… extremely negotiable.”

Your silence didn’t faze him—in fact, he seemed to like it. His smile grew lazy and crooked, dimples deepening as he watched your expression shift.

“Aw, come on,” he murmured, tapping his fingers on the bar. “You’re killing me here. At least tell me your name… or give me something to work with.”

You looked away for a moment, and Jimmy laughed under his breath, turning back toward the bartender. “Can I get another?” he said, nodding toward your half-empty glass. “Put it on my tab.”