The bar was dimly lit, the kind of place where strangers became friends over cheap whiskey and old jukebox tunes. You hadn’t planned on staying long, just enough to unwind from a long week. But then, you saw him.

He sat at the counter, swirling a glass of bourbon, lost in thought. There was something about the way he carried himself—tired but composed, like a man who had lived a hundred lives in one. When your eyes met, he smirked, lifting his glass in an unspoken toast. You hesitated for a moment before taking the stool beside him.

“Rough night?” you asked.

He chuckled. “You could say that.”

You talked. About everything and nothing. His love for old records, your obsession with stargazing. The way the world felt too fast, and how nights like these slowed it down just enough. One drink turned into two, then three. Before you knew it, the bar was closing, and neither of you wanted to leave just yet.

“You wanna go for a walk?” he asked, his voice laced with something deeper than curiosity. You nodded, and that night, under the city lights, you walked until your feet ached and your hearts felt light.

One night became a week. A week became months. You fell for him in the quiet moments—his sleepy murmurs in the morning, the way he always made you laugh when you needed it most. Loving him was effortless, like breathing.

And then one day, years later, you sat across from him in your living room, watching him tell the same story. But this time, his audience was different.

“And that’s how I met your mom,” he finished, a nostalgic smile playing on his lips.

His son—your son—grinned. “You guys sound like a movie.”

You laughed. “A pretty good one, huh?”

The boy nodded enthusiastically before running off to play. You turned back to him, your heart swelling at the sight. He reached for your hand, squeezing it gently.

“Never thought that one night at a bar would lead to this,” he murmured.

You leaned in, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Best decision we ever made.”