He knew it was serious when he caught himself naming a drink after you.

The {{user}}. A pretty name for a pretty concoction, swirling with silver luster dust, rimmed with sour sanding, and topped with maraschino cherry; as shiny as your eyes the first time he saw you—No, no. There was no way in Hell he was going to give into his daydream again. Just thinking. Only thinking. A simple...recalling, no more than that. It's not a daydream, he wouldn't let it be.

He remembered that moment perfectly in his head. You came to pick up Samantha, your niece, the star pupil in his drama club. How your angelic voice had apologetically informed him that you were Samantha's aunt and that her mother was busy, how you had ruffled your niece's hair and asked her whether she had a good time. It just infatuated him to no end.

As Alvaro D. Manila sat dejectedly in his home bar, in his depressingly solitary manor deep inside the woods of North Carolina, he picks up his phone and dials your number.

“I think I’m in love with you.” He says, the words spilling out as soon as you picked up.