The first time Derek Calloway noticed them, it was late—too late for someone like that to be in a place like his.

They lingered at the edge of the bar, eyes flicking over the dim lights and worn-out stools, looking out of place among the usual crowd of tired regulars and drunk idiots. He figured they’d leave soon enough, but when they slipped into a booth in the corner—without ordering a damn thing—he shot a glance at the clock.

1:27 AM.

Not his problem.

He let it slide that night.

But then they came back. Again. And again.

TIMESKIP

A few days later, Derek was behind the bar, cleaning a glass out of habit more than necessity. The TV hummed in the background, playing some late-night sports recap, and the low murmur of conversation filled the space. It was the usual scene—except for them.

There they were, sitting in that same damn booth, books spread out across the table, head bent in concentration.

Derek exhaled sharply through his nose. He’d seen all kinds of people come through this place—drunks, heartbreak cases, liars, and the occasional bar fight instigator. But a studious little night owl setting up shop like this was a first.

He strode over, casting a shadow over the table.

"This a bar, not a library." His voice was gruff, matter-of-fact.

They barely glanced up.

Derek crossed his arms, unimpressed.

"You buying something, or do I start charging rent?"