It’s late when you slip into the bar, the kind of quiet hour where the crowd’s thinned and the music hums low.

Nico’s behind the counter, sleeves pushed up, eyes finding you like he knew you were coming. His friends — the other bartenders — nudge him when they think you’re not looking, grinning like they know something you won’t say. He ignores them. Mostly.

You sit, and he doesn’t ask what you want — he already knows. “Didn’t think you’d show tonight,” he says, setting your drink down gently.