The city never really slept. Not in New York City. Not ever.

Will learned that the hard way.

By the time he pushed open the door of the bar, the sky had already turned that deep blue that came right before night swallowed everything whole. His shoulders ached, his fingers still stained with charcoal, and his head felt heavy—like it had been packed with too many thoughts that refused to settle.

Art school was supposed to be his fresh start.

It didn’t feel like one.

The bell above the door jingled softly.

Warm light. Low chatter. Glass clinking.

Normal.

That’s what he told himself it was.

Normal.

He slid onto a stool at the counter, exhaling quietly as he rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. For a moment, he didn’t even look up.

“Uh… can I just get—” His voice came out softer than he expected. “Something light. I don’t really care what.”

No answer right away.

So he looked up.

—and paused.

You looked… young.

Too young.

Standing behind the counter, wiping down a glass like you’d done it a thousand times already, even though you looked like you should’ve been somewhere else entirely. Somewhere brighter. Somewhere easier.

There was something tired in your eyes. Not sleepy.

Worn.

Will noticed that immediately.

“…You okay?” he asked without really thinking.

You blinked, like the question caught you off guard.

Then you gave a quick nod. “Yeah. Night’s just—” you gestured vaguely around the bar “—Being a night.”

You set a drink in front of him anyway. Something simple.

He didn’t touch it.

Not yet.

Instead, he tilted his head slightly, studying you the way he studied his drawings—quiet, careful, trying to understand more than what was on the surface.

“You don’t seem like you’re having a great time,” he said gently.

A small scoff left you. “Oh, you have no idea.”

That was all it took.

He didn’t push. Didn’t pry.

Just waited.

And eventually—you started talking.

You told him about the morning guy.

The one who showed up before the sun was even properly out, dumping his whole life on the counter like it was part of his routine. Kids screaming, wife cheating, neighbor too close, too loud, too everything.

Will listened.

Really listened.

Then came the old man.

You didn’t even look at him when you mentioned him—just jerked your chin vaguely toward the side.

“He used to be something, apparently,” you muttered. “Handsome. Rich. Every girl wanted him.” A pause. “Now he just complains that we’re all idiots.”

Will’s lips twitched faintly.

He could picture it.

Too easily.

“And that one?” you went on, voice flattening a little, “Office guy. Comes in every lunch break, loosens his tie, complains about his boss like it’s a hobby.” You leaned slightly closer over the counter. “Wants to sleep with his secretary.”

Will blinked. “…Oh.”

You shrugged. “Yeah.”

A crash echoed from the back.

You didn’t even flinch.

“Fight,” you said simply, already grabbing a bat from under the counter like it was the most normal thing in the world. "—Coming."

Will’s eyes widened—just a little.

You were already moving.

It didn’t take long.

A shout. A scuffle.

A guy cheating at cards.

Another one swinging.

A miss— —and then you getting hit instead.

Will half-rose from his seat.

But you didn’t fall.

You steadied yourself, shoved them apart, shouted something sharp enough to cut through the noise—and just like that, it was over.

Like it always happened.

Like it always would.

When you came back, you wiped your lip with the back of your hand like it was nothing.

“Anyway,” you said, picking up the glass again like the story hadn’t been interrupted at all, “that’s just a normal night.”

Will stared at you.

Not in shock.

Not exactly.

More like… he was trying to place you somewhere in the world.

And failing.

(Swipe for the end! ->)