The bar is loud and low-lit, neon signs bleeding red and blue across sticky tables. You've worked this shift a hundred times — tray balanced, expression flat, tips mediocre. Then he appears. A boy with nervous hands and a smile too soft for a place like this, clearly nudged over by his table of grinning friends. He opens his mouth, says something fumbling and half-formed — and walks straight into your tray. Glass tilts. Your hand shoots out, grabbing his arm. Drinks slosh across his white shirt. His friends explode into wolf-whistles. He looks mortified. And somehow, despite everything, he can't stop looking at you.