You’re nursing your second pint when I slide onto the stool beside you. The Lamb and Flag is busy tonight—Friday evening, end of another long week—and you’ve claimed this corner spot where the bar curves away from the main crowd. Perfect for conversation.
“Excuse me,” I say, catching the bartender’s attention. “Two more of whatever my friend here is drinking.”
You look up, surprised. I offer my most disarming smile. “Sorry, hope you don’t mind. You just looked like you could use some company. I’m Sam.”
“I… thanks.” You seem uncertain whether to be flattered or annoyed. “That’s very kind.”
“Long week?” I ask, settling into the rhythm of Friday night small talk. The bartender slides two fresh pints across the polished wood. I push one towards you, noting how you hesitate before accepting.
“You could say that.” You take a tentative sip. “Work’s been mental.”
“Tell me about it. I’m in marketing myself—client deadlines, unreasonable demands, the usual circus.” This is my opening gambit, something safely middle-class and boring. People trust marketing executives about as much as they trust anyone these days. “What line of work are you in?”
As you tell me about your job, I watch how you hold yourself. Shoulders slightly hunched, protective. You’re not used to strangers buying you drinks, are you? That’s good. It means you haven’t developed the cynical edge that makes this sort of thing more difficult.
“That sounds fascinating,” I say when you finish describing your work. And I mean it, in a way. I find people genuinely interesting, especially in these moments before they understand what’s happening. “You must be good at reading people.”
You laugh, a genuine sound that transforms your whole face. “I wouldn’t say that. I’m probably too trusting, if anything.”
“Nothing wrong with trust. The world needs more of it.” I raise my glass in a mock toast. “To trusting souls.”
A fleeting expression crosses your face—something almost wistful—and I file it away. Everyone has their wounds, their particular vulnerabilities. Trust issues usually mean someone’s already been hurt before.
We drink, and I watch the alcohol begin its subtle work. Your shoulders relax fractionally. You’re warming to me now, probably telling yourself this is just friendly conversation, nothing more.
“So what brings you to the Lamb and Flag on a Friday night?” I ask. “Celebrating something? Drowning sorrows?”
“Neither, really. Just… needed to get out. Been cooped up all week.” You pause, considering. “What about you?”
“Same, I suppose. Though I have to admit, I was hoping to meet someone interesting.” I let my eyes meet yours, just long enough to suggest something without being crude about it. “Looks like I got lucky.”
You blush slightly, and I know I’ve judged the approach correctly. Not too forward, not too subtle. Just enough charm to keep you engaged without triggering any alarm bells.
“You’re very smooth,” you say, but you’re smiling as you say it.
“Am I? I prefer to think of myself as honest. When I see someone attractive sitting alone, I figure the worst they can do is tell me to bugger off.” I lean closer, lowering my voice just enough to create intimacy. “And you haven’t told me to bugger off yet.”
“The night is young.”
“Indeed it is.” I signal for another round. “Though I find the best conversations happen when people let their guard down a little.”
The third pint arrives, and I notice you don’t hesitate this time. We’re settling into a comfortable rhythm now, the awkwardness of first contact dissolving into something warmer. You’re funny, I discover. Quick with observations about the other punters, the bartender’s increasingly frazzled expression as the crowd thickens.
“See that couple by the dartboard?” you say, gesturing with your glass. “Twenty quid says they’re on a first date and it’s going badly.”
I follow your gaze to where a woman checks her phone for the third time in five minutes while her companion lines up another shot. “What makes you so sure?”
“Body language. She’s angled away from him, he keeps missing the board, and neither of them has laughed once.” You take another drink. “Plus she’s texting someone. Probably arranging her escape route.”
“You are good at reading people.” I’m genuinely impressed. This level of observation could complicate things later, but for now it’s entertaining. “What’s your read on me?”
You study my face with tipsy concentration. The alcohol is definitely taking hold now—your eyes are slightly unfocused, movements a fraction slower than they were an hour ago.
“Confident,” you say finally. “Used to getting what you want. Bit mysterious, though. You haven’t really told me anything about yourself beyond the marketing thing.”
“What would you like to know?”
“Anything, really. Where do you live? What do you do for fun? Are you always this forward with strangers in pubs?”
I laugh, buying myself time to construct the right answer. “Fair questions. I live in Clapham, nothing fancy. For fun… I read a lot, do a bit of hiking when the weather’s decent. And no, I’m not usually this forward. But there’s something about you that’s… intriguing.”
“Intriguing how?”
“Hard to put my finger on. Maybe it’s the way you watch people, or how you went from suspicious to relaxed in the space of two drinks. You’re adaptable. I like that in a person.”
You seem pleased by this assessment, though I can see you’re struggling slightly to focus. The combination of alcohol and flattery is working exactly as intended.
“Should we get some food?” I suggest. “Can’t have you drinking on an empty stomach.”
“Probably sensible.” You fumble for your wallet, but I wave you away.
“My treat. I invited myself into your evening, after all.”
We move to a corner table, and I order sharing plates—nothing too heavy, nothing that will soak up too much alcohol. I want you relaxed, not sobered up. As we eat, I steer the conversation towards more personal territory.
“So,” I say, loading olives onto a piece of bread, “anyone special in your life?”
You shake your head, perhaps a little too quickly. “Single as they come. You?”
“Same boat. Been a while since I met anyone worth spending time with.” I let the compliment hang in the air while you process it. “What happened with your last relationship, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Ended badly. They… well, let’s just say trust became an issue.”
Perfect. Someone with relationship baggage, probably feeling isolated, definitely vulnerable to the right kind of attention. “I’m sorry. That’s rough. Being betrayed by someone you trusted… it changes how you see people, doesn’t it?”
You nod, suddenly looking older. “Makes you wonder if you can trust your own judgement.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, I think your judgement’s spot on tonight.” I let that compliment settle while ordering another round. “You’ve got good instincts about people.”
“Ancient history now.” You drain your glass and immediately look around for the next one. The alcohol is definitely taking hold.
“Another round?” I suggest, already signalling the waitress.
“Should probably slow down,” you mumble, but you don’t refuse when the fresh drinks arrive.
By now your speech is noticeably slower, words slightly slurred at the edges. You’re still engaged in conversation, still laughing at my jokes, but your responses are delayed, your movements loose and uncoordinated.
“You know what I love about you?” I lean forward, voice dropping to an intimate whisper.
“What’s that?”
“You’re genuine. No pretence, no games. Just honest conversation.” I reach across and briefly touch your hand. “It’s refreshing.”
You don’t pull away from the contact. In fact, you seem to lean into it slightly. “You’re not so bad yourself, Sam.”
The words come out slightly jumbled, and I know we’re approaching the critical moment. You’re drunk enough now to be suggestible, relaxed enough to trust me, isolated enough in this crowded pub to feel like we’re the only two people who matter.
“Listen,” I say, glancing around as if checking for eavesdroppers, “this might sound forward, but I’ve got a bottle of rather good wine back at mine. Quieter than this place, better for proper conversation. What do you say?”
You blink slowly, processing the invitation through an alcoholic haze. “I… that’s very kind, but I should probably…”
“Should probably what? Go home to an empty flat and fall asleep watching Netflix?” I keep my tone light, teasing rather than pushy. “Come on, live a little. When’s the last time you did something spontaneous?”
I can see you wavering, the alcohol making decision-making more difficult. This is the moment where everything changes, where your evening transforms from pleasant conversation to something else entirely.
“I suppose… just for a bit?”
“Brilliant.” I’m already standing, helping you with your coat. “It’s only a short walk.”
You stumble slightly as we leave the warmth of the pub, and I steady you with an arm around your shoulders. To any observer, we must look like a couple heading home together after a pleasant evening. Nothing suspicious about that.
“Fresh air feels good,” you mumble, leaning against me more heavily than necessary.
“Does, doesn’t it?” I guide you down a quieter side street, away from the glow of the pub. My grip tightens slightly on your arm, steering you with easy authority.
You hesitate. Some flicker of awareness breaks through the alcohol haze. “This… this isn’t the way to the taxis.”
I smile, though you can’t quite see it in the dim light. “Don’t worry. It’s not far.”
We pause in the shadows, the noise of the crowd fading behind us. You glance back, calculating, as though weighing whether it’s too late to turn around.
“Maybe I should—”
“Shh.” My voice is gentle, coaxing. “Trust me.”
For a long moment, we just stand there in the empty street, your doubt growing, my hand firm on your arm.
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