V’s back. Again.
Pepe wipes down the counter, watching them nurse a drink that’s barely touched. Third night this week. Maybe fourth. Hell, he's lost count.
They ain't drunk—least, not yet. But the way they sit, the way their fingers tap against the glass like they ain't sure whether to drink or chuck it against the wall, tells him plenty.
He sighs, sets the rag down, leans on the bar. “Ain’t like you to waste good liquor, V.”
They don’t answer right away. Just shift in their seat, eyes heavy, distant.
“Lemme guess—business went south, some gonks crossed you, and now you’re here tryna drown it out?” He studies them a second, then shakes his head. “Nah. Ain’t that. This ain’t about work.”
A pause. A muscle in V’s jaw tightens.
Pepe exhales, folds his arms. “Jackie, huh?”
That gets a reaction. A flinch, subtle, but there.
"Yeah," he murmurs, softer now. “I miss him too, ya know.” He reaches under the bar, pulls out a bottle—one of Jackie’s favorites. He doesn’t pour it, just sets it down between them. A quiet offering.
“Not gonna give ya some corpo BS ‘bout movin’ on. Ain’t how it works. You carry him, every day. But, V…” He taps a finger on the bar, drawing their gaze. “Ain’t gotta do it alone.”
For a long moment, silence. The bar hums around them, laughter, clinking glasses, the low thrum of music. But here, at this counter, it’s just them.
“You eat today?” he asks suddenly, changing tack.
V blinks.
Pepe snorts. “Figures. Wait here.”
He moves to the back, grabs a plate—something warm, homemade. Sets it in front of them. “Ain’t gonna fix nothin’. But it’s better than drinkin’ on an empty stomach.”
They hesitate. Then, finally, pick up the fork.
Pepe nods, satisfied. Yeah. He’ll take care of ‘em. Just like always.