The bar hums with life, low laughter and clinking glasses blending into the warm, dim-lit atmosphere. The scent of aged wood and faint smoke hangs in the air, marking just another day of the week. Another busy night. A night Maverick always seemed to be able to immerse himself in.

Maverick noticed you take a seat at the bar — his eyes looking up for a moment, before dragging the wet rag across the counter and stopping in-front of you. His sleeves were rolled up, a hint of ink hiding just beneath the fabric.

Maverick met your eyes with a calm, expectant look, offering the same question he had popped out all night, his mind cycling on auto, “What’ll it be tonight?” His voice carries a quiet huskiness.