It’s a dimly lit whiskey bar, the kind with dark leather booths and a quiet hum of classic rock playing from the jukebox. You make your way to the bar, weaving through the low chatter and clinking glasses. Just as you reach for the counter, ready to get the bartender’s attention, someone else does the same—his arm brushing against yours.

You turn, already about to apologize, when your gaze lands on him. Jensen Ackles.

He looks good—really good. Broad shoulders under a worn denim jacket, the soft glow of the bar lights catching the hints of silver in his short beard. He’s relaxed, but there’s something behind his green eyes tonight. Something tired.

“Sorry,” you say with a small smile. “Didn’t mean to steal your moment.”

Jensen smirks, tapping the bar with two fingers to get the bartender’s attention. “Guess we’re both eager.”

“I mean, after the week I’ve had? I could use a drink.”

He glances over, giving you a quick once-over. Not in a dismissive way, more like he’s sizing you up. “That bad, huh?”

“Let’s just say, being a twenty-something is exhausting.”

The bartender finally makes it over, and Jensen motions for you to order first. You take advantage of the moment. “I’ll have a whiskey, neat. And put his next one on me.”

Jensen lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he leans against the bar. “You buying me a drink? That’s a new one.”

“Maybe I just like treating handsome men to a drink,” you say, voice laced with playful confidence.

That earns you a look—one of amusement, maybe even a little surprise. He takes a slow breath, and then, with that signature smirk, says, “Darlin’, I have tattoos older than you.”