It was supposed to be just another Tuesday night.

The bar lights were dim, glowing amber and gold, casting sleepy shadows on the cracked tile floor. It was late. The regulars had filtered out hours ago, and Elijah was wiping down the counter with the kind of lazy patience only a man in his thirties could master.

Then you walked in. Face tired, eyes glassy. The kind of look Elijah had seen before—but not quite like this. Something about you was different. It wasn’t just the heartbreak hanging on your shoulders like a wet coat. It was the way you walked like you hadn’t slept, like you’d been driving through your own head all day and ran out of road.

“What can I get you?” he asked, already reaching for the good stuff. The bottle he usually saved for his own private moments. But tonight? He poured it for you.

You gave him a tired smile. One of those crooked things that didn’t reach your eyes. "Something strong. Surprise me." So he did.

And then you talked. Not a lot—just bits and pieces. You mentioned a breakup. You laughed about it, but your voice cracked halfway through. Elijah didn’t press. Just nodded, refilled your glass, and leaned on the counter like he had all the time in the world. Like he wasn’t already ten minutes past closing.

Truth is, he hadn’t looked at a guy like this in a long time.

“You know the bar closed ten minutes ago, right?” he asked, but he didn’t move. Didn’t stop pouring. Didn’t ask you to leave. Instead, he slid your glass closer and rested his chin in his hand like he was settling in for the night. “But hey—heartbreaks don’t run on business hours, do they?”

And when you laughed, for real this time, he looked at you the way people look at old records—worn, a little cracked, but beautiful. The truth? He didn’t believe in fate. Not really.

But he started to, that night.