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"Everythin' alright there?"
You look up from the beer in your hand, the drink now flat and warm, but you haven't even taken one sip of it in the hour since you've ordered it. It takes a moment to realize you've been staring at nothing. The glance up is with a startle, and your eyes lock on a pair of deep brown irises that look schorl in the dim lighting of the bar that's a perfect reflection of the bartender in front of you.
It’s small, dim without being gloomy. In fact, warmer than you expected, lit by low amber bulbs and whatever neon bled in through the windows from outside. The wood behind the counter is worn smooth by years of elbows and waiting hands, the floors scarred in ways that tell stories without asking to be read. No loud music, just something low and steady humming through the speakers, enough to fill the silence without crowding it. Regulars claim their usual stools, jackets hang on the backs of chairs, glasses are untouched, while conversations stretch out slow and careful. The kind of place you go to disappear for a while, or to be seen without being questioned. On any given night, the air smells faintly of citrus, old whiskey, and rain tracked in from the street, inviting and heady. The man stands behind the counter like a fixed point; unshowy, dependable, watching over it all as if the room itself is something worth protecting with his life.
You weren't a regular by any means, only having been here a handful of times, but you needed the distraction tonight.
He pauses mid-wipe of a glass, tilting his head just slightly, and you realize he’s talking directly to you. "Now, miss," he says, voice low like gravel underfoot, "that drink's gone shy on you. You plannin' to court it proper or just let it sit there lookin' lonely?" He sets the glass down with a soft clink. "Or maybe you're after somethin' that don't come in a bottle?” He shrugs nonchalantly. “Either way, my ears ain't decorative." One corner of your lips quirks up into a reluctant smile, your first real hint of amusement all night. You glance around at the bar full of prospectors, taking a deep breath.
"Sorry, it was just a long shift today," you respond quietly. "But I'm fine, really," your tone dismissive. He stops his task, setting the rag over his shoulder as he leans against the hardwood, one eyebrow quirking higher than the other.
"Mmhmm. 'Fine' folks don't stare holes through their drinks," he says dryly, plucking the neglected glass away and replacing it with a fresh one: something amber and faintly steaming. "Spiced cider. Won't rot your teeth or your judgment. Now," he taps the counter twice, "you wanna tell me what's eatin' at you, or we gonna play 'guess the prospector's problems'? I'm good at that game, but it's damn tedious." Now a full smile does break across your lips, and you lean back for a moment on the barstool you’ve been occupying all night. You take a moment to look the bartender over, from his deep brown eyes, tanned skin, and dark brown hair to his black shirt and dark grey pants.
"Don't you have more important things tonight? Like making sure these other dipshits get their beers?" You ask, not quite wanting to direct his attention your way just yet. He chuckles, a sound like whiskey poured over ice.
"Oh, them?" He gives a jerk of his chin toward the rowdy prospectors without even glancing their way. "They'll holler when they're thirsty again. But you-" He folds his arms, the scars along his forearms catching the dim light, as silvery as the downturned curve on his cheek. "You're the kind of quiet that either means deep thoughts or bad decisions. And since I'm the one who'll have to scrape either off my floor later, well I reckon you've got my full attention miss..." A pause and another raised of his dark brow, clearly wanting your name. You give it and he gives a satisfied nod,
“Ezra,” he says, offering you a hand in greeting, which you take and feel him give a light squeeze, the heavy steady warmth of his palm grounding you in a way. You both let go after a moment and he smiles, continuing on, “'Sides, you're better company. At least you know how to wipe your boots." You laugh and nod finally, giving in.
"Alright, fair enough." You sigh and debate on where to begin, mulling over just how much to indulge. You don't know Ezra well, just the little you knew from the regular patrons here. Up until tonight, you've only exchanged maybe 5 words in all 3 months you've been coming here. He slides a bowl of roasted moon-nuts toward you, letting you take a moment to think.
"Start wherever sticks," he says, leaning his elbows on the bar. "Three months of drinkin' in silence buys you at least one good rant. Hell, make it two - inflation's a bitch." His mouth crooks at the corner. "And don't worry. Secrets here either die with me or get traded for equally ugly ones. That's the rules." He nods toward your untouched cider. "That's gettin' cold. Wouldn't want to offend it twice in one night."
“Sorry.” You apologize and take a big enough sip to be polite. The liquid is sparkly, warm, and just sweet enough to mellow the bite of the alcohol. Your eyebrows shoot up, impressed, and you take another sip after downing the first. "Wow, this is really good."
His responding grin was all satisfaction, like a prospector who’d just struck a vein. "Ain’t it? Secret’s in the moon-apple rind it ferments meaner than a jilted lover." He polishes a glass absently, watching you over the rim. "Now, I reckon that cider’s bought you at least three sentences of grievance. Spill ’em. Unless you’re savorin’ the quiet like it’s the last damn thing you got." His tone is light, but his eyes don’t budge from yours, as steady as a gravity anchor. You smile again and nod apologetically.
"Right, sorry." Another sigh, before you finally found your words. "Well, I wasn't kidding when I said it was a long shift. I spent all day in the Lau trenches trying to go over what my team and I scouted on the last run. I had to fight off another crew solo." He lets out a low whistle through his teeth, setting the clean glass aside beside a tower of freshly cleaned crystalline.
"Damn. And here I thought I had a rough day." He gives a pitying shake of his head, but his eyes express clear sincerity. "Fightin' off another crew ain't nothin' to sneeze at. You do alright?" Even through the easy tone, his gaze is watchful, his stance deceptively loose. You nod, but you’re not smiling anymore.
"I like being a prospector. Good money, steady work. But killing is..." You trail off, shaking your own head as the thought of what had transpired today leaves an acrid taste in your mouth like the smell of gunpowder. You take another long sip of cider to wash it away. Ezra nods, understanding that taste all too well, and especially the need to banish it.
"It ain't for the weak-stomached," he agrees, his voice now a low rumble. "There's a big gap between wantin' somethin' and bein' able to stomach what it costs." He pauses, his gaze drifting to a group of rowdy prospectors at the end of the bar, their raucous laughter a stark contrast to the sober tension between you. "You ever think about walkin' away?" You follow his gaze, watching the way the group of both men and women laugh with each other and joke through long drinks of dark beer.
You both suddenly wonder if maybe they went through similar things today, and if so, how could they stomach it so easily? Neither of you truly knows the answer. It makes your stomach turn all the same. You meet his eyes once more, finding them trained on you already. "Can't afford it. I put myself in a lot of debt when I was younger, got to pay it off somehow." He exhales slowly through his nose, a sound like wind through canyon cracks.
"Debt's a cruel bastard," he says, turning to pick up another glass that’s still got droplets of water coating the surface. "Got teeth in places you don't expect." He sets the glass down once dry with a quiet thunk.
“Hear, hear,” You respond sullenly, and his eyes soften.
"But listen," His voice drops, rougher now. "you keep carryin' that weight, it'll crush you long before the debt does. Seen it happen. Too often." He pushes the cider an inch closer to you. "You ever need a night off from bein' bulletproof, this stool's yours. No charge." You manage a smile again and are about to thank him but both of your gazes are drawn to a man at the far end of the bar, calling for Ezra's attention and holding out an empty glass.
He turns back to you and gives you an apologetic grimace, pushing off the bar and sauntering down to serve the impatient patron.
The bar’s busy tonight, but Ezra doesn't seem in a hurry. He takes his time, filling the glass with an amber pour from a bottle labeled "Devil's Kiss". All the while, his eyes keep flicking back to you, a quiet concern lingering in their dark depths. You nod at him just once and raise your drink a bit his way in thanks.
He seems satisfied with that, returning the nod and moving away, slipping into the rhythm of bartending like he was born to it. He works the bar efficiently, pouring drinks, settling disputes, and keeping things under control. You notice how he tends the bar the way he does everything else: quietly, with intent. He moves behind the counter in clean, economical lines: never rushing, never wasting motion, as if every reach and turn has already been practiced somewhere harsher than this room. He doesn’t talk too much, but people talk to him anyway. He listens with his whole body, and gives easy laughs to funny stories, disarming smiles to friendly banter. His eyes flick up at the door when it opens, hands steady as he pours, attention split effortlessly between the glass in front of him and the mood of the room. He remembers what people drink, how they like it, when to slow them down. When someone needs cutting off, it happens without spectacle: a hand pauses mid-pour, a look he holds just long enough, then a glass of water slides across the bar with no explanation. Trouble rarely reaches him, and when it does, it seems to lose interest once it realizes it’s been seen too early.
But as the hours tick by, his gaze occasionally flickers back to you. Every now and then, you catch him watching you, almost as if he’s checking to make sure you haven't vanished into the night. The times your eyes meet, you only give him a brief smile, returning to your drink, one that he returns politely.
As the night drags on you can’t help but find your own eyes drawn to him too, taking in the way he works: watching him do his duties with a disarming smile and drooling charm. You know being charming is a major part of the gig, but he moves with ease that’s enviable, owning the room in a way that isn't an easy feat amongst all these troublemakers and borderline criminals. It’s impressive. He navigates his space with the casual confidence of someone accustomed to being in charge. Yet amid the chaos, he always seems aware of your presence: a glance here, a subtle nod there, a smirk that you can't quite decipher. Each time, it feels almost conspiratorial, like sharing a secret in the middle of a crowded room. It puts you at ease, and you admire the way he can shift from politely flirting with the women in here to falling into a familiar rapport with a regular, to sternly kicking out a rowdy patron without so much as breaking a sweat.
He slides back your way after the latest batch of orders are settled, wiping his freshly-washed hands on the towel slung over his shoulder. "Sorry 'bout that," he mutters, shaking his head. "Place gets rowdier every damn night." He leans against the bar, gaze lingering on you just a second longer than necessary. "So," he says, voice dropping into something warmer, "you still holdin' up alright? Or am I gonna have to pour you another one of those ciders to keep you from broodin’ too hard?" There’s a hint of teasing in his tone, but beneath it, something genuine. Whatever it is, it makes your stomach flutter in a way that has nothing to do with alcohol. He’s pouring you a fresh glass already anyway.
You chuckle softly, a slight blush in your cheeks that you can't quite explain. Before you can muster up some clever response to his banter, he’s gone again, so you draw your gaze down to the cider he's placed in front of you and down the rest of your first drink before moving on to the fresh one as you try - and fail - to keep from ogling him again.
His eyes catch the motion as you swap out your empty drink for the fresh one, and you swear you see a barely suppressed smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He keeps up his steady rhythm, serving and chatting with effortless ease, all while stealing glances in your direction. It’s like you’re the only calm point in a storm, a spot where the noise doesn't quite reach. Every now and then, you notice how he finds himself standing a bit closer to your end of the bar than necessary, like he’s drawn by an invisible thread. It’s subtle, but it’s there.
After another half hour, you’re on your third drink now, half of it gone, and you can feel the alcohol taking its toll, your muscles loose now, eyes a little glassy, and body as warm as the cider. You’re nowhere near drunk yet, but you can feel the effects of the buzz starting and so you set the drink aside, deciding you should probably switch to water soon. Ezra notices you pushing the drink away and gives a small approving nod as he approaches.
"Smart call," he murmurs, taking one of the clean, tall glass of chilled water and sliding it toward you, which you catch with ease. "Don't worry, still counts as 'keepin' your seat' if you're just nursing that." He smirks, leaning in just enough for you to catch the scent of citrus and something woodsy beneath the other usual bar smells. "Though I ain't complainin' if you decide to stick around a while longer." The words sound light, but there’s something deliberate you catch in the way he lingers, like he isn't just talking about the drink.
"Actually, I uh... should probably call a transport. My pod isn't too far from here, but I don't live in the safest area." You say, already taking a sip and feeling relieved when the ice-cold drink makes its way down your throat, cooling the heat stuck there. You can feel your body starting to break out into a light sweat, and you reach for your jacket's zipper, undoing it and starting to remove it.
His hand suddenly shoots out on instinct, catching the edge of your jacket before it slips off completely. His fingers linger for a heartbeat too long - calloused, warm - before he eases the material back onto your shoulders. "Easy now," he says, voice rough but amused as he glances around the room, his eyes sharper than they were moments ago. "Pretty specimen like you is safer in that thing, trust me." His grip loosens, but he doesn’t step back just yet, his breath mingling with the scent of spiced cider between you. You nod and zip the garment back up, and the muscles in his shoulders finally relax in response. "As for transport…" His eyes now shift toward the door, then back at you, weighing something. "Tell you what: gimme 20 minutes to close up. I’ll walk you to your pod." A beat. "No charge."
The touch sparks another flutter in your stomach, making you pause. You hesitate, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth pensively as you try to weigh your options, and try not to blush at him calling you ‘pretty’. Observant as ever, he notices the hesitation, watching your teeth worry your lip with a look he doesn’t try to hide, the smile on his lips honeyed.
He leans back, giving you space even as his fingers flex absently at his sides - as if resisting the urge to reach out. “You shouldn’t be walkin' through these streets on your own at this hour. Not on this goddamn moon." He doesn’t say it out of feigned chivalry. He just heard you tell him you took on 4 to 5 men by yourself. By your estimation, he’s just being a gentleman. You watch as he crosses his arms over his chest, the movement making the muscles in his arms flex and his pectorals shift. You drop your gaze almost immediately, nodding after another short moment, knowing that his concerns are valid.
"Ok, I guess it's better to be safe than sorry." He catches the quick flicker of your eyes and bites back a smirk. He knows he’s handsome. He’s clearly not arrogant about it, just aware enough to notice the looks. But there’s something about how you avoid his gaze when you realize you've been caught that makes him want to catch you again. He nods briskly, already grabbing another beer to fill a waiting order.
"Settled it is then," he says, his eyes flicking your way as he works. "I'll be done here soon. Just... stay put, alright?" You nod, giving a brief mock salute and bringing the glass to your lips again, taking another long drink as you watch him begin giving hints that he’s closing up. He gives a good-natured roll of his eyes at the salute but doesn’t hide the grin it earns you.
He moves through the rest of his closing routine with practiced efficiency. He cuts off the rowdier patrons, settles tabs, and tosses out the stragglers with a mix of charm and firmness that leaves no room for argument.
You linger longer than you really need to, watching him wipe down the bar like it deserves the same care he gives the people who came in here tonight. Sleeves rolled up, movements slow now, unguarded. Tired in a way that feels earned. The place is empty, lights dimmed, and there’s something intimate about seeing him like this, after everyone else has gone, like you’ve caught the quiet version he doesn’t offer on purpose. When he finally looks up from his last task, just briefly, it feels like being noticed by something steady and dangerous and kind all at once.
It’s quiet except for the hum of the overhead lights and the clink of him stacking glasses. He wipes his hands on his towel before turning to you. "Alright," he says, tossing it aside. "Let’s get you home." His voice is much quieter now, replaced by something softer that makes your pulse kick up just a little. You nod, and jump off the stool, forgetting to account for the height of the longlegs that usually sit in it. You stumble just a fraction.
Ezra is quick to catch you by the elbow before you can stumble too far, his grip steadying. "Easy there," he’s fighting back another smirk. "Steady on those feet." The grin wins out as he looks at you, one hand still on your elbow, the other bracing your back and you feel a flash of goosebumps race up your spine at the heat radiating from his palm, even feeling it through the fabric of your jacket. "You always this drunk after three drinks?" he teases, his voice a gruff mumble that’s almost fond.
You snort. "Thanks, I'm not drunk anymore, just a klutz." You mutter but smile anyway. "Are you sure you're ok with this? I think there's still time to call a shuttle out if I need to."
There’s the immediate shake of his head, his hand dropping from your elbow but still hovering close just for a moment longer to make sure you’re fine. "Not a chance. I offered, didn't I?" He walks away to grab his own jacket behind the bar, walking towards you as he slips it onto his shoulders.
His leather jacket is old yet deliberate, a dark brown - almost black in low light - softened by years of wear rather than neglect. You notice how the hide has gone supple at the shoulders and elbows, creased where his body naturally moves, polished dull along the seams by hands, doorframes, bar stools. It’s cut close without being tight, and looks practical enough to move in. The collar is simple and unadorned, usually worn open. You see how the lining has faded, with one pocket stitched by hand where it once tore, and he deemed it worth fixing. As he nears again, you catch the scent of smoke, cold air, and that same citrus that surrounded you earlier. When he shrugs it on, it looks less like a style choice and more like armor, something he’s learned to live inside.
"Besides, already locked up. You're stuck with me, I'm afraid." There’s a gleam in his eyes that says he doesn't have a problem with that.
You shrug in compliance, "Suppose you're right." You admit, taking one final look around the bar, surprised at how quickly he was able to clean up the mess of all the customers he had tonight. "So... you work here alone?" You ask as you begin making your way out.
He pushes the door open, his eyes scanning the street beyond automatically. It’s dark and quiet, with only the faint hum of distant machinery from the refineries. He waits for you to step out before following, shutting the door with a solid thunk. He grabs a ring of keys from his belt loop, and you finally notice another piece of leather on his body: a brown sheath on his belt that mostly conceals a rather large-looking dagger on his person, the handle of it hidden well enough inside his jacket as it sets on his black belt. You wonder how you didn’t notice it before, but you quickly realize you weren’t really paying much attention to his body as it was concealed by the bar top. Until now, that is.
"Mostly," he replies, starting down the street as your eyes can’t help but track his movement now. He’s still solid, still grounded, but there’s a looseness to him when he moves that catches you just a tad off guard. Broad shoulders, heavy through the chest and arms, his strength sits on him easy, worn in. When he walks, there’s a slow roll to it now. His hips and shoulders work together, confidence slipping through the caution. It’s not loud or cocky, just the kind of swagger that comes from knowing he can handle whatever’s in front of him. Like he’s stopped proving anything to anyone, including himself. It makes every step feel intentional, a little dangerous, and damn-near impossible not to watch. "I gotta couple of part-timers that help on busier nights." He glances at you from over his shoulder, keys trilling in his hands, just in time as you catch yourself ogling him again. "You sound surprised."
You shrug again, the movement subtle as the cool night air hits us. “I’m just impressed you’re able to handle some of the roughest people out here on the Outer Rim,” You say smoothly as you outpace him now, leading the way down the cobblestone street, the path barely illuminated by street posts and passing hovercrafts
"Rough, sure," he agrees, once again falling into step next to you. His gait is easy, long strides keeping pace with your shorter ones. "But mostly they’re loudmouths with more bark than bite. I’ve seen bigger fights in a moonling nursery." He smirks, glancing at you. "Besides, it usually stops at words or maybe some shoving. Most folks don't want a permanent ban 'cause they can't keep their goddamn fists to themselves."
You smirk, nodding in agreement. You’d been there on a night when a certain prospector, old and weathered, had been picking trouble and grating on Ezra's patience. "Like that old timer a few months back," He snorts at the memory.
"Ah, good ol' Jackass Jackson. Biggest noise, smallest brain." He chuckles, running a hand through his hair. "Had half a mind to toss him through the door after the third damn time he called me a 'bartender bitch.'" He rolls his eyes. "That one definitely tried to throw hands." He shakes his head, his voice dropping a note.
"You were there that night, weren't you? Think he tried to hit on you, too."
"Yeah, I was, I think it was my first time actually," You recall with a small grimace.
His smirk widens. "Oh, I remember," his tone amused. "You shut him down so fast, I swear his boots squeaked when he spun around." He chuckles, giving another shake of his head. "Never seen a man get shot down that politely and still look like he'd been slapped." He looks over at you again, this time with something warmer in his expression. "That was the night I noticed you." The admission’s casual, but the way he says it makes your pulse jump. You try to play it cool, even as you two round the corner onto your street and you give him a long look.
"You noticed me?" The question is as casual as you can muster it, but you don't have that honeyed charm Ezra does, so it comes out a little heavier-handed than intended. He doesn't look like he minds though.
His eyes meet yours in the dim glow of the streetlights. He can see the surprise in your face, the way your breath hitches slightly.
He confirms it with a curt nod, the next words coming out a rough rumble. "Hard not to, really." There’s a pause as he holds your gaze, something flickering in his eyes. "You stood out. And not just cause you didn't try to flirt your way into free drinks." He’s teasing, but there’s a sincerity beneath the words that makes your heart skip another beat. You notice how he keeps a respectable distance in between you two as you walk, his hands shoved firmly in his pants pockets.
"What else then?" You ask as you draw nearer to your pod. You can spot your silvery terrarose hedges about ten paces away. But, for some reason, you aren't quite ready to say good night yet.
He slows his steps as your pod comes into view, hands tucked into his pockets. He glances at you sideways, that same half-smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. "What else?" He hums, considering. "Well, for starters, you weren't noisy. You didn't try to pretend you were something you weren't. You paid your tab on time." He chuckles low. "And you never once spilled your drink." His gaze lingers on you before he shrugs. "Figured you were either smart not to piss me off... or real good at mindin' your own business without bein' rude."
A beat passes.
"Turns out," he murmurs, "you're both, in an attractive way."
You smile again, your face warm once more, but you can't dismiss it on an alcoholic buzz this time. "Well, you're not so bad yourself," You say, nudging his shoulder with yours just a tad, just as you reach your front gate. Ezra's smile deepens at the touch, his shoulder leaning ever so slightly into yours.
"Not so bad, huh?" He echoes, his voice warm with amusement. "I'll take that." You both stopped just before the gate now, standing under the soft glow of a nearby porch light.
He tilts his head, studying you, his gaze flickering up and down as if committing you to memory. "Gonna be alright from here?" The concern is mild, but it’s there, a slight furrow between his thick dark brows.
You step into the gate - him holding it open as you cross the threshold and latching it back into place himself as you now stand on opposite ends of it. You nod at his question, glancing back at the empty dwelling before meeting his eyes again.
"Oh yeah, I'll be fine. My only concern was getting here without finding any trouble, luckily I didn't. Suppose I should thank you for that." You say. He chuckles lowly, leaning on the fence in a casual pose tha’s at odds with the sharp intelligence in his eyes.
"I ain't in the business of lettin' trouble have its way with pretty creatures." There it is again, that teasing tone that’s been making your stomach flip-flop.
He pushes off the fence, hands disappearing into his pockets again as he takes a step closer, so close his boots brush the gate. The soft light of the porch makes him look younger, less hardened, even with that same scar. You notice now that while his eyes looked near-black in the dim lighting of the bar, they’ve actually got flecks of gold, just barely noticeable but close enough to be closer to a pair of Tiger’s Eye, and your heart gives another flutter.
"Well, now who's the one flirting?" You tease, dropping your gaze for just a fraction.
He gives a full laugh and the sound is just as warm as the rest of him, curling in your abdomen, as he leans his upper half over the top of the door. "Never claimed I didn't flirt," His tone a gravelly purr that goes straight to your core. "Just that I don't offer free drinks for it." His eyes are trained on you again, studying you in the low light. You catch that scent of citrus and spice again but now the accompanying scent of leather makes your head spin. "You're flushed." He points out quietly. Not as a tease, not as a challenge, just an observation.
"Damn cider." You respond as your eyes drop to his mouth, but it doesn’t have any real accusation behind it. You both know it isn’t that anyway, so what’s the point in acting like it? He smiles, gaze darkened as he notices where you were looking. His own gaze flicks down to your mouth and he leans in just a bit more, as much as the gate will allow, his body just inches from yours now. You can feel the heat radiating off him, mixing with the warm flush on your own skin, and your pulse is thrumming steadily now. He hums, low.
"Damn cider." He repeats softly, almost a whisper to himself.
The sound of men laughing snaps you both out of it, and both your gazes are drawn to the group of four heading your way. You reach for your thrower at your hip just as Ezra reaches for the sheathed blade at his belt. But, the men aren’t even looking your way, stumbling into a pod at the same corner you had passed through 5 minutes earlier. He lets out a slow, controlled breath, his jaw clenching as he keeps his eyes on the group, even long after they’ve disappeared.
He finally turns his attention back to you, his gaze flicking quickly over your body as if to ensure you’re unharmed. When he seems satisfied, some of the tension leaves his shoulders, and he shakes his head. "Reckless idiots…” Another muscle in his jaw ticks and that edge is in his eyes again, but you can see he’s trying to tame it when he speaks to you once more. “It’s late, you should head inside,"
“Yeah, yeah I should,” You reply, realizing how close you had been to asking him to come inside with you. And what a regret that would’ve been. You reach into your jacket pocket, pulling out your wallet. “Oh, I almost forgot. How much do I owe you?” You ask, but he shakes his head before you even finish the question.
“Nothin’, I’ll just put it on your tab.” You almost protest but his eyes tell you he’s not having it, though he does give a reassuring smile. You nod once, and back away from the gate as you put your wallet away. You feel his eyes on you as you make your way up to the front door, fumbling with your keys for a moment as you unlock it.
“Thanks again, Ezra, I really appreciate it,” You say as you take a step inside.
"It's no trouble." He says just loud enough for you to hear, the intensity from earlier almost forgotten. Almost. His eyes track your movements as you step into the house, and he raises a hand in a half-wave as you do. "Night." The corner of his mouth quirks up again, a ghost of that earlier smirk. "Stay safe." You smile back,
“You too; have a good night,” You respond before closing the door, the soft ache in your chest not lost on you as you move to the window to watch him go. You see how he watches as the door closes, a strange feeling twisting in his chest. He stands there for a moment, gaze lingering on the now-closed door.
He shakes it off after a beat; he has no reason to feel like this. He barely knows you, just a pretty girl who visits his bar every once in a blue moon. He turns away, hands back in his pockets as he starts down the street again, trying to forget the feeling in his chest and the image of your flushed face.
As you get ready for bed that night, you can’t stop seeing his deep brown eyes, the plush of his bottom lip, the silvery curve of the scar on his cheek. Maybe it was time to become a regular patron after all.