somebody needs a nap

You're still not sure how you ended up here tonight. Well, that isn't strictly true; your feet carried you from the nearby ballroom where the wedding reception was held, straight past the establishment on your walk home through the crisp autumn night. Far from crowded and dimly lit, soft music playing over the speakers from a long bygone era, something about the bar’s atmosphere soothes your frayed nerves.

As to why you ended up here tonight, that was easy.

You'd suffered through watching the newlyweds’ first dance, then everyone else filling the floor in couples while you waited at the sidelines. You could only kill so much time tending to the flower arrangements purchased from your employer before you were simply wandering the edges of the room. Unable to take the embarrassment any longer, you gave your regrets to the maid of honor, mumbling something about an early morning at the shop. Somehow managing to sneak out without being stopped by anyone, it only confirmed that you were every bit as invisible as you felt.

You've seen the place dozens of times, located just outside your neighborhood, but never been inside. The blue neon marquee simply reads “Bar,” the other letters having been burned out as long as you can remember. Mistaking it for a dive, you realize just how wrong you've been all this time.

Warm lighting reveals a classic art nouveau decor, a bit worn from age, with a polished wooden counter taking up fully half of one wall. A large space opens out just beyond, hosting a cluster of dancers moving slowly to Ella Fitzgerald in pairs. You're glad to be fresh from the wedding, your fitted maroon button down and ruffled black skirt looking stylish without being formal.

Heading for the counter, you find an open stool and sit down, waiting for one of the bartenders to notice you. You know that isn't the best strategy if you want a drink any time this century, but you can't bring yourself to bother them with your request. Pathologically shy on a good day, there was a reason you never ended up in bars looking for company. Hell, you're not even here tonight looking for a hook-up, just a drink without being made to feel pathetic before returning home to your empty apartment. Plenty of single people ended up in bars to drown their sorrows, you tell yourself. You won't exactly be out of place.

To your surprise, one of the two bartenders actually does take notice, stopping in front you as he wipes his hands on a damp towel. He's devastatingly handsome, dressed in a fitted gray vest and white shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. You realize after a moment of staring that he's asked what he can get you, and you stammer out your order.

You decide on a Manhattan cocktail, the atmosphere in the bar having you feeling a bit fancy. It should pack a punch without getting you drunk and prone to making any poor decisions – like hitting on the bartender. He mixes it up in front of you with a flourish, blending the whiskey and vermouth in a shaker before straining it into a chilled martini glass and adding the bitters. Garnishing it with two dark cherries on a tiny plastic skewer, he slides it toward you on a napkin.

It’s impossible not to notice the size of his hands, the muscles in his forearms extremely distracting. A tattoo adorns the inside of one wrist in bold black lines, a pair of horns in the sign for Aries with the symbol of a spade worked in above it. You hand him your card before you can get too caught up in the display before you, and he takes it with a slight smirk before running it through the register. He definitely noticed you checking him out, but you figure he has to be used to it.

To your surprise, he wanders back over in your direction as you sip the drink, easily the best one you've ever had. People come and go, ordering scotch and gin and vodka tonics, keeping it classic. The clientele ranges in age from slightly younger than you to over fifty, many of them couples, and the bartender seems to know a good many of them by name.

“Can I get you another one…?” he trails off, and you realize he's waiting to see if you'll volunteer your name.

He has to have seen it on the card, but it's awfully charming to be asked. You surprise yourself by giving it to him, then shake your head at the offer of another drink.

“On the house for a first-timer,” he says with a far-too-charming smile, but you decline again.

“Don't want to be tipsy walking home,” you say, wondering if you already are to be making conversation with someone so handsome.

He's exactly your type, dark hair grown out just long enough to fall across his pretty brown eyes. He frowns a bit at your statement, and you wonder if you've somehow offended him by turning down the drink.

“You sure you should be walking home alone this late?” he asks, and you bristle for a moment. The implication is clear; it just wasn't safe for a woman to walk home unescorted. “Unless you're here with someone,” he adds, and you wonder if that's his way of asking if you're single.

Yeah, you’re definitely tipsy.

“I'll be fine,” you protest a bit hotly. “I know the neighborhood.”

“So do I,” he says with concern. “Tell you what, why don't you let me call you a rideshare.”

“Really, I'll be fine,” you say, just as an older man in a smoking jacket leans against the bar next to you.

“Did I hear you say you're here by yourself tonight, little lady?” he asks, the stink of bourbon on his breath.

“Leo,” the bartender says with gentle disapproval.

“I've had a really long day,” you say honestly. “So…”

“Need some help relaxing?” he asks with a leer, leaning in closer.

You wince, leaning back as his cologne assaults your senses and your glasses fog up at the edges.

“Stop, right now,” the bartender says, his tone firm.

“Oh, come on, Yunho,” the man complains. “Can't a guy have a little fun?”

“You've had enough fun for one night,” the bartender – Yunho, you suppose – admonishes. “Don't you think it's time you went home to your wife?”

Leo waves him off with a litany of curses, but pushes away from the bar and heads for the exit.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice heavy with relief.

“Leo's a good egg, really,” Yunho says with a shrug. “But that doesn't mean he gets to harass one of my patrons.”

You smile, looking down at the polished wood grain.

“Want to tell me about that long day?” he asks, mixing up a drink for a man beside you.

“Nothing like a wedding to remind you of how alone you are,” you say wryly, surprising yourself at the admission. “Sorry, that sounds pretty pathetic, doesn't it?”

“I'm a bartender,” he says. “That's nowhere near the most pathetic thing I've heard tonight.”

You laugh despite yourself, and he smiles, drying off a glass. “Okay, now you have to tell me the most pathetic thing you've heard.”

“That's a little like kissing and telling, isn’t it?” he says, one corner of his mouth turning up in a sly grin.

“Do you make a habit of kissing your patrons?” you ask before you can think better of it.

“Only the really pretty ones,” Yunho says with a wink, walking off to take another order.

You can feel your cheeks heat without really knowing why; after all, it wasn't as though he meant you with that statement. You toy absently with the little plastic sword in your glass, one cherry remaining on its length. You can tell they’ve been soaked in brandy, and while delicious, you're not sure you want another one.

Before you know it, Yunho is back at your end of the counter, taking orders from two new people who have worked their way over. Once he's mixed their martinis in a decidedly showy manner, he leans back on the bar in front of you.

“You've still got one cherry left,” he observes, resting his chin on his hand.

“Oh,” you say, about to explain your reason when he lifts up the sword and holds it out to you.

You reach for the skewer and he pulls it back, shaking his head before holding it out again, one hand below it to catch any drips. This time you catch his meaning, and without knowing why you lean forward. Taking the sword into your mouth, you suck the cherry from its plastic length and crush it between your teeth, feeling the sweet, fiery rush of liquor on your tongue.

“That's a good girl,” Yunho says, slowly pulling the sword back out and dropping it in your glass.

You freeze, his words striking a bell somewhere deep in the recesses of your mind. Good girl. No one's praised you like that since childhood, and you're surprised to discover that you like it. A lot.

Glancing up, you catch Yunho carefully gauging your response. A sly smile spreads across his features, as if gratified at being proved right. Feeling almost hypnotized, you can't look away.

The moment breaks when a feminine voice calls out “Excuse me,” from somewhere down the line. Yunho glances in her direction, seeming to notice for the first time that his partner is nowhere to be found. Making a noise of annoyance, he taps the wood in front of you twice with his knuckles and heads toward the request.

“Damn,” a soft voice from beside you says. “That was hot. You know him?”

You shake your head, still a bit dazed. Some part of you definitely wishes you did know him, or might get the chance to.

“I would literally pay to see that again,” the man continues, someone next to him aiming an elbow to his ribs.

“Ouch,” he grumbles. “Just saying. Wooyoung, by the way.”

You give your name in return, and Wooyoung nods, as if in approval.

“Haven't seen you here before,” he says, his tone casual where it easily could have been suggestive.

“I haven't been,” you say. “Was just on my way home and decided I could use a drink.”

“Yeah, uh, us too,” Wooyoung says, pointing with his thumb at the man beside him, who gives a brief wave. “Yunho's an – interesting guy, just for the record,” he adds, glancing down at the pink concoction in front of him.

“Talking about me, Wooyo?” Yunho asks, reappearing in front of you with a glass of ice water. “Only good things, I hope.”

“When have I ever maligned you?” Wooyoung asked, a faux innocence in his tone.

“I can think of a few times,” Yunho says with a slight frown. “Like that time you thought I was hitting on San.”

“To be fair, I thought you were too,” the other man says.

Yunho extends his arms out to either side. “I'm just a friendly guy,” he protests. “Kind of a job requirement.”

Wooyoung snorts. Yunho's outstretched arm smacks into his coworker, having returned without you noticing, and he grouses at being smacked.

“Are you trying to put me out of a job?” he asks. “I can't tend bar with only one arm.”

“You'll manage,” Yunho says, rolling his eyes.

“Seriously, I'm wounded here,” he says, clutching his bicep.

“Oh knock it off, Sangie,” Yeosang says while Wooyoung chuckles beside you. “I know you. You're not that much of a weakling.”

You can't help but smile at their antics, obviously long time friends.

“You about ready to get off?” Wooyoung asks.

You try to contain your amused, if childish, reaction at his phrasing, but fail miserably. You can tell Yunho notices from the way his lips curve up at one side of his mouth.

“I dunno,” Yunho says. “Was thinking of staying a little later. Helping Sangie out,” he adds, giving Wooyoung a somehow significant look.

“You sure about that?” San asks. “Thought you might have somewhere important to be.”

Yunho spares a quick glance in your direction, clearly trying for subtlety. “You heard me,” he says. “Kinda busy.”

“Not sure that's going to go over so well at the, er, staff meeting,” San continues.

“Mother can do without me for once,” Yunho says, his tone stern.

It doesn't take much to realize they're talking about something else entirely, and you wonder what exactly you've stumbled into. What did his mother have to do with anything?

“I should probably get going,” you say awkwardly. “If I could just get my card back…?”

“I think you should stay,” Yunho says in a decisive tone, surprising you and apparently Wooyoung as well, from his quiet noise of disbelief.

“I'll get that rideshare if you really want,” you say, wondering if that's the reason behind his response.

Yunho says your name with a slightly disappointed note in his voice. “I thought you were going to be good for me?”

Something paralyzes you where you sit, a tiny rush of butterfly wings in your stomach. Seeing your hesitation, Yunho gives you a nod, as if it's already decided. You swallow hard and stay put, something in your mind screaming that you're already in over your head.

It's the possibility of hearing his praise again, you realize. It should seem pathetic but somehow feels right in a way nothing has in years.

“Yeah, okay,” Wooyoung says slowly. “We'll just give the boss your regrets, then.”

There's a hint of a warning in his tone, and you wonder if maybe you should push the issue of leaving. You stay quiet instead as Wooyoung and San rise from their seats, Wooyoung throwing back the rest of his cocktail before setting the glass gently on the counter. They don't wait for Yunho to close out their tab, or ask for a card back, which briefly strikes you as odd before you feel Yunho's gaze on you again.

“I'm glad you decided to stay,” he says.

“I hope I'm not getting you in any trouble with your boss,” you say, deciding it's useless to keep pretending that this isn't about you. Surprising, shocking even that Yunho would take a genuine interest in you, but seemingly true all the same.

Yunho laughs. “Don't worry about it,” he says. “He won’t fire me, he needs me too much.”

“If you're sure,” you say, your words trailing off as you try to reconcile the masculine pronoun with Yunho’s earlier comment about his mother.

“I'm sure,” he says, setting down the glass he’s been polishing for the last several minutes. Glancing around at the patrons, most with drinks in their hands, he gives a nod of satisfaction. Your heart drops a little when Yunho walks off without a word, but then you realize he’s coming around the end of the bar to stand beside you.

“Dance with me,” he says, extending a hand. Despite the lightness in his tone, it doesn't sound like a request.

“Oh, I'm a terrible dancer,” you protest.

Yunho frowns. “I doubt that,” he says.

“No really,” you continue. “I'll just step on your feet.”

“I've survived worse,” Yunho says with the hint of a smile. “Come on, dance with me.”