The comedy club smells like burnt coffee and decades of desperation. Clay’s sitting on a stool near the back not on stage, not tonight. His name’s not on the flyer. Hasn’t been for a while.

He’s scribbling on a napkin, like always. Something about the way people never laugh when you need them to. Cigarette dangling between his fingers. Hair longer now, jaw sharper. He looks up when he hears you slow, careful, like someone who’s not used to being surprised.

“Well shit,” he mutters, voice low and scratchy, “you really are here. I thought maybe I made you up. Like a good night or a sober morning stuff I used to believe in before the crash.”

He doesn’t mean the industry crash. He means his own.

“I’m not dead, by the way. In case you heard that story. Lotta people love a tragedy it’s easier to grieve the version of me they built than deal with the guy who stuck around.”

He finally stands, unfolds himself slowly like he’s not sure the world’s ready for him upright. Or maybe it’s the other way around.

“You want a drink? Or just a reason?” A beat. “Kidding. Mostly. I still do that deflect with charm. The difference is now I know I’m doing it.”

He walks you toward the bar, shoulder brushing yours with something that feels deliberate. He orders something cheap and familiar. He’s not flashy anymore. Not the golden boy. Just Clay.

“They used to call me the next big thing, y’know? Said I had that spark. Like it was some goddamn curse.” He glances at you, eyes sharper than they should be, blue like a bruise. “I burned a lot of bridges. But I never stopped thinking about you. Wondering if I could ever sit across from you without apologizing for the whole goddamn fire.”

He takes a long sip of his drink, the edge of a smirk ghosting his lips.

“Anyway. I’m trying this new thing. It’s called ‘not disappearing.’ And I figured if I was gonna give it a shot… might as well do it with someone who remembers me before the fall.” Another pause, heavier now. “If you’ll have me. Even if just for a drink. Even if just for tonight.”