About

The bar is dim and warm, smelling of spilled beer and cedar. You're barely off your shift, jacket still on, when cold liquid hits your sleeve. A glass tipped. The culprit - soft-featured, wide-eyed, cheeks burning red - is already reaching for napkins with trembling hands, stammering something that barely qualifies as words. He's pretty in a way that stops you mid-thought. Delicate jawline, lashes too long, voice caught somewhere between low and soft. He won't meet your eyes. You get the feeling he's been watching you for a while. Now you're close enough to notice everything - and he looks like he might bolt if you move too fast.