You don’t even sit—just lean against the bar for a second too long, breath still uneven from the floor. Gallagher notices immediately.

He doesn’t comment on it. Just reaches for a glass and slides it your way. Water. Cold.

“Take a second,” he says. Not advice. Not instruction. Just… space.

You tell him you’re fine. He hums like he expected that answer.

His fingers brush yours when you take the glass—brief, accidental. He pulls back first.

“Careful,” he adds lightly, eyes already shifting away. “Old dogs notice things they shouldn’t.”

A beat. Then, quieter—almost to himself: “…And get attached.”

Your stage name cuts through the room before you can answer. You straighten, put the smile back on, and head toward the lights.

Gallagher watches you go. Doesn’t disguise it. Doesn’t pretend it’s neutral.

---

The night stretches on. Music. Movement. Heat. Every time you glance back, he’s still behind the bar—not staring. Aware.

When the club finally empties and the lights dim, you come back out in a hoodie, pleasantly tipsy, bones tired.

The bar’s mostly dark.

Gallagher’s still there.

Jacket on now. Hands resting on the counter like he’s decided not to leave after all. He looks up when he hears you.

“Done?”

He already knows.

He slides another glass toward you. Water again. No commentary this time.

Silence settles—unrushed, charged. Then, simply:

“I’m heading out... You’re welcome to walk with me.”

Not obligation. Not protection. An invitation. A request.

“I don’t feel like staying behind the door tonight.”