A C T O R S || OS 02

137. Chris Evans | Always You

By : your-highnessmarvel

Requested by Anonymous: Do you think you could do a prompt where the reader is 20 years younger than Chris and of course happy ending, but he thinks he's taking away her prime years when he really isn't and there's a temporary break before they get back together. (Non famous reader, met at a bar?) please and thank you!

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The door of the cab banged shut and you walked away without a last glance, your boots scuffing the gravel. You'd ended in some shit butt town off the border of Boston, and now you needed a drink. The guy you'd been seeing had just dumped you because "things were moving too fast", and now you needed to drown your anger in some gin.

The said bar - Jack's Watering Hole - had a sign hanging off one hinge at the door that read "WE CARD ALL MINORS" and a LED sign flashing ladies night. Well, just your luck.

This was not how you planned to spend your twentieth birthday night.

The door opened and out came a draft of cigarette smoke and bad breath. You could barely see when you walked in, what with the low lighting and cloud of smoke curling around your leather jacket. Some guy at the bar turned on his rusty stool to stare at you, belly jutted out under a crumby grey wife-beater.

There were two women in their thirties standing on six-inch heels by a shitty arcade game, giggling, swaying to the intrinsic music. A few lonely birds had flocked on the other side of the bar, staring into their beers. And a fellow with a Red Sox cap sitting alone in a booth, trying really hard not to stare at you but ultimately failing.

You walked to the bar and ordered straight fucking gin because this was a shit night.

"And give me whatever that guy sitting in the booth is having," you added, watching as the bartender - who wore a sleeveless plaid - looked over your shoulder and shrugged.

You clicked your nails on the bar as you waited, considering if what you were about to do was a good idea or the dumbest. Who knows? Serial killers are just about around every corner these days.

You took your gin and the stranger's Budweiser - really? - and handed the bartender his money. You took a breath of good luck and twirled on your heel, headed towards the stranger.

He stared at you with open astonishment as you sat down right in front of him, smiling awkwardly, offering him his beer.

"Rough night?" you opened, mentally stabbing yourself for choosing such a cliche line.

He smiled. Huffed. He had a full, brown beard that shadowed the bottom half of his jaw. A straight nose. Blue eyes. Handsome. What the hell was a J-Krew model doing in this asscrack of a town, in this bum fuck bar?

"Trying to be unnoticeable," he said, grabbing the beer you offered him.

You took of sip of gin. "Can't really go unnoticed when you look like that," you confessed. Maybe it was your ex's betrayal or the lonely one hundred dollars sitting in your bank account or your left tire blowing out, but whatever it was that was giving you this much confidence, you loved it.

"Look like what?" he asked. He tugged, nervously, at the seam of his black sweater sleeve.

"Like a god," you mumbled, dipping your lips into your drink.

"Well," he laughed, "that's officially the first time I've heard someone refer to me as a god."

His smile was addicting. His laugh was close to dying over.

You felt the pinch of attraction in your belly. "What do they refer to you as, then?"

He mimicked being in deep thought. "Hunk," he said, pointing the tip of his beer at you. "Hollywood's hottest single."