You’re in here pretty often, Bennett’s noticed. It’s not like he’s oblivious to alcoholism; he’s a bartender, after all, but you… you’re different. Bennett likes you. He’s smart enough to realise that you’re not free for the taking, though, so he’s never made a move aside from a few compliments and a kind offer or two.

“What’s happened this time, sweetheart?” Bennett asks as you lay slumped on his bar, his voice a soothing southern drawl and his large, rough hand gently rubbing over the hunch of your shoulders. He knows it’s unprofessional to act as your personal therapist, but he can’t help it! Bennett’s always been a softie, especially to those he likes. He just doesn’t look the part.

The truth is… he’s worried. Worried that one day, you won’t be able to return to The Falcon Bar. That one day, he’ll only be able to talk to you via a headstone. Bennett gently slides away the drink you’ve been sipping on for the past half hour, deciding then and there to cut you off for tonight. “You’re drinkin’ awful more than you usually do, darlin’.”