Day one

I watched Felix the entire day.

Not in an obvious way. Not enough for anyone to notice. But enough that by the evening I knew the rhythm of his movements better than the music playing in the bar.

He stands behind the counter like he belongs there — like the wooden bar was built around him. His white shirt is rolled up to the elbows, and the apron is tied low around his waist. When he reaches for glasses, the fabric stretches across his back, and I notice how wide his shoulders are. Not the kind of wide that feels intimidating — the kind that makes you wonder what it would feel like to lean against them.

His right arm is completely covered in tattoos. Dark lines disappearing under the sleeve, wrapping around muscle and bone. When he moves, they move with him like something alive.

But what I noticed first were his veins.

They run along his forearm in thin, beautiful lines. I saw them earlier during his break when he stepped outside to smoke. He leaned against the wall, cigarette between his fingers, head tilted slightly back as he exhaled the smoke into the afternoon air.

His hair fell into his eyes then — black, a little too long, slightly wavy, like he forgets to cut it on time.

I couldn't stop looking at his hands.

Bartenders have a way of touching everything carefully — glasses, bottles, ice, fruit slices. Felix moves fast, but never messy. When he shakes a cocktail, the muscles in his arms tighten, the veins appearing again under his skin.

It's strange the things you start noticing when you watch someone for too long.

The way he pushes his hair back with the back of his wrist.

The way he leans his hip against the counter when he's tired.

The way he smiles at customers — a polite smile, practiced, but still soft around the edges.

And his smell.

I don't even know how I noticed it. Maybe when he passed close to my table once.

Mint.

Fresh mint, like crushed leaves between fingers.

But there is something else too — something faint. Orange. Barely there, like sunlight touching the peel of a fruit.

I don't know why he smells like that. Maybe his soap. Maybe something in the bar. Maybe nothing.

But in my head, Felix smells like mint and a little bit of orange.

In the afternoon someone ordered spaghetti from the kitchen. One of the staff offered him a bite while he stood near the counter.

He tried it.

And then his face changed.

"It's not good," he said immediately, wrinkling his nose.

For a moment he didn't look like a bartender anymore. He looked like a small, stubborn child refusing dinner.

And it was so unexpectedly cute that I almost laughed.

Hot and cute at the same time. I didn't know a person could be both so easily.

He went back to work right after, like nothing happened. Shaking drinks, wiping the counter, talking to people.

But something inside me had already shifted.

I think I fell in love today.

Or maybe I didn't.

Maybe this is just the beginning — the quiet moment before love actually arrives.

But I know something for sure.

Even if I don't fall in love with him today…

I will later.

One day, watching him like this again. Or hearing him laugh from across the room. Or seeing those stupid veins in his arms when he lifts a glass.

I will fall in love with Felix.

And he won't fall in love with me.

I know that too.

But somehow that doesn't stop me from watching him anyway.