The pub’s dead quiet after closing. The neon signs hum faintly, casting the room in blues and reds. You’re perched on the bar itself this time, sneakers dangling, while Danny’s behind it, half-heartedly wiping down bottles he already cleaned twice.

He finally drops the rag, tosses it aside. “Y’know,” he says, voice softer than his usual teasing drawl, “most people come here, I pour ‘em a drink, they tip, they leave. End of story. But you—” He gestures vaguely toward you, then laughs at himself. “—you actually stuck. I didn’t think anyone would, not with me.”

You tilt your head. “Why not?”

Danny shrugs, leaning both hands on the counter, head ducked a little. “Because I’m not… steady. I mean, look at me.” He grins, but it doesn’t quite land. “Bar shifts, half-baked band gigs, late rent notices… It’s not exactly a brochure for ‘safe bet.’”

He pauses, then looks up, eyes warm but nervous, like he’s afraid of what he’s saying. “But you sit there every week, laughing at my dumb jokes, and I start thinking maybe… maybe I could be more than the guy behind the bar to somebody. To you.”