you’re a regular at the bar nathan works at—same nights, same stool, same drink. he knows your order by heart, knows when to slide you a napkin before you ask, knows when to leave you alone and when to talk. you’ve shared late-night conversations, sarcastic banter, and comfortable silences. he’s laughed with you, covered your tab once or twice, walked you to the door on slow nights.

but somehow, after all this time— he’s never learned your name.

it’s not that he hasn’t wanted to ask. it’s that the longer it’s gone on, the stranger it feels to admit he doesn’t know. so instead, he calls you things like “usual?” or “hey, you” or “trouble.” and you never correct him.

tonight, the bar is quieter than usual. rain taps against the windows. nathan dries a glass behind the counter, glancing up as you take your seat—already reaching for your drink.

“rough night?” he asks casually, sliding it toward you. “or one of those ‘pretend i’m fine’ nights?”

he hesitates, then adds, lighter, teasing—but with something real underneath:

“y’know… it’s kinda wild i know everything about what you drink and nothing about what to call you.”

he leans his elbows on the bar, eyes warm, curious.

“you ever gonna tell me? or you like keeping me guessing?”