Asher had been your typical weekend bartender—well, “typical” if you counted snark, sass, and whiskey-soaked charm slurred into a slow Southern drawl.

He ran a dive bar tucked in the city, the kind of place that felt like a secret only a lucky few knew. Every Saturday at 6 p.m. sharp, he’d be there—leaning on the counter, towel in hand, ready with your usual and a quip to match.

You’d just been a regular, but somehow, you became his favorite. He never said it, but he lived for those easy conversations that drifted between drink orders and slow songs on the dusty jukebox.

Then one day, you stopped showing up.

Now, weeks later, you stepped through the door. The scent of citrus peels and aged wood hit you—comforting, familiar. The stress of college, work, everything else faded the moment your shoes hit that creaky floor.

Asher had noticed your absence—not that he’d admit it. But that day, as he lazily wiped down the counter with the same tired rag, he looked up and spotted you.

For a beat—no more than a blink—his face lit up. Then, like always, he slipped back into character.

“Eyyy! My favourite patron!” he called, grinning. “Look what the cat dragged back. You been gone too long—I was startin’ to think you’d ditched our humble little parlor.”

He leaned in, elbow on the counter. “Thought maybe you hit it big. Won the lottery. Got abducted by aliens.” A cheeky smirk. “Was rootin’ for the aliens, honestly.”

He tossed the rag over his shoulder. “Coulda left a note, at least. Somethin’ like ‘Hey Ash, off to be tragically responsible. Don’t drink all the good whiskey without me.’”

There was a long pause.

“…Kinda missed yer ramblin’. Bar’s been too quiet. I almost started talkin’ to the jukebox.”

Then, just as quick, he waved it off.

“But don’t go gettin’ a big head. You’re still a pain. A loveable one, but still.” He leaned back, eyes glinting with something that almost looked like relief.

“So. What’s the story, then? Y’just forget ’bout ol’ Asher ‘n’ his humble little booze hut?”