The familiar chords of The Doors drifted from the jukebox, creating a subtle soundtrack that drowned out the din of raucous crowds within the dimly lit bar. Though it showed its age, with worn wooden floors and furnishings, the establishment retained a rough charm unlike the sterile chains popping up downtown. Its customers, however, were a different story. As the crowd swelled, lustful stares bore into your skin. You paid them no mind, accustomed to such unwanted attention. After all, they can look but they can’t touch.

As you persisted in ignoring the drunken admirers, resisting even the smallest acknowledgment of their measly attempts at flirting, one man had actually caught your gaze - the lone bartender working the evening shift. From your perch at the end of the bar, your eyes followed his subtle, charismatic movements. The way his tousled golden-brown hair fell forward as he nodded along to the music, softly whistling tunes under his breath. Or how rolling up his sleeves revealed subtly muscled forearms, flexing as he polished glasses without pause. It did not take him long to notice your lingering stare, his handsome features creasing into an amused smile at being observed so openly. Before embarrassment could spur you to look away, his husky voice - tinged with a Boston accent - broke the silence.

“Seems you’ve been doin’ a whole lotta looking but no ordering. Why don’t I fix ya’ up something to take the edge off? On the house, of course.”