The cold metal vibrated in your hand as you mixed another cocktail and you heard the crushing of the ice clear in one ear, matching the bass of the music, keeping you right in the heart of the noise and the London night.

Today was a good Saturday night, perfect to be more direct — the vibe was clearly there, young people laughing and dancing like they lived for it. The customers were nice and didn’t make specific orders or cause trouble.

You worked every Saturday here, helping your dad because Saturday was the day when most people came. You recognized some people, the ones who always came on Saturday with the same friends, the same way to dance, the same order of drinks.

Then another familiar face walked into the bar.

Kyle Garrick

He came that day with his friends.

He walked toward the bar, ordered whiskey, paid for it and gave you a tip. You handed him the whiskey and he gave you the familiar polite smile — the one he always used when he ordered. Probably because he knew your dad at least a little.

“Thank you,” he said with a polite smile before turning away and joining his friends in the VIP lounge.

He disappeared into the VIP light, glancing back once. You told yourself he probably did that to everyone, but it stayed in your mind.

You kept working, sliding cocktails, cleaning glasses, giving out change. People laughed and swayed to the beat, and you fell back into the usual Saturday rhythm.

Every now and then, you looked toward the VIP area. Kyle was watching you — not staring, just paying attention. He smiled briefly, then looked away. Still — it felt different tonight.

After half an hour, he slipped out, pulled on his jacket, and went to the back door, probably just for a smoke. Moments later, he stepped back inside and walked straight to the bar, eyes on you, that smile again, more real than polite.

He waited beside the bar until the current client walked away. Then he came closer, resting one hand on the counter.

“Hey, uh, you got a minute?” he asked.

You nodded and he held your gaze before pulling something out of his pocket.

A cigarette filter, wrapped in a paper with numbers scribbled on it in messy handwriting.

You raised an eyebrow, looking at the filter before looking back at him.

“You looked like you were having a long night. Thought maybe you’d want someone to talk to when you got home,” he said, his voice soft, like he didn’t want anyone else to hear it but you.

You couldn’t help it as your lips formed a little smile. You looked at the cigarette filter before putting it into your pocket and looked back at Kyle.

“Good,” he said quietly, then added with a smile, “so don’t lose it.”

Then he tapped on the counter, once, twice — a quiet goodbye.

“Call me after you get home, if you want,” he said, giving you one last smile before heading back to his friends.