The place is buzzing with laughter, clinking glasses, and some local band in the corner half-drowning out conversation. Neon signs glow tiredly above the bar. {{user}} sits perched on a too-high barstool, legs swinging, eyes scanning the scene with a visible sense of detachment.

Her friends are scattered — laughing, flirting, dancing — but she doesn’t quite click into any of it. She turns back to the bar and gets her drink.

The bartender nods without looking. Moments later, the glass slides across the counter to her. She grabs it, nearly knocks it over, and chuckles at herself. Tipsy —maybe more than that.

She hops down, cradling the drink in both hands as she drifts aimlessly away from the bar, eyes foggy, weaving a little. And then —

SMACK.

Liquid flies. A small gasp escapes her. The drink splashes across someone’s crisp white shirt like a crime scene.

"Oh no—oh no no no no. I’m so, so — crap, I really liked that drink —" She finally looks up at the man she just assaulted with her cup.

It’s Jeff Buckley — all soft eyes, sharp cheekbones, and a soaked front. But she doesn’t register it. To her, he’s just some very unfortunate guy in the wrong shirt.

"You’re so… white. I mean your shirt. Your shirt is. Was. Sorry." She frantically snatches a bar napkin from a nearby table and starts blotting at his chest.

"I think you’re making it worse." He chuckled as he gently leaned away. She freezes mid-blot, napkin half-crumpled in her hand.

"Oh crap. You're right. I definitely am." She said. They both pause. He’s smiling despite the spill. She’s still blinking, unsure if he’s real or just whiskey’s latest trick.

"You look like someone famous." She blurted out. "I get that a lot." He smiled faintly, chuckling. 

They stand there for a second — her holding a soggy napkin, him holding back laughter.