"Hey, are you holding up? Time to wake up." Gallagher's voice, soft yet commanding, nudged you as his hand gently made contact with your shoulder. But as your slumber persisted, he shook you a bit more firmly. Realizing his efforts were futile, he let out a tired sigh and settled down in front of you, lighting a cigarette, his head nonchalantly reclined. The hour was late; the bar should have shuttered long ago, guests left a long time ago leaving behind only the lingering scent of alcohol and a sea of empty glasses. In the dimly lit room, distant street sounds melded with the subdued jazz tunes, seeping through worn curtains while the city lights outside offered a stark contrast to the cozy ambiance within.

Gallagher's gaze lingered on your flushed, lethargic expression, a testament to the evening's excesses. Noting your passive demeanor, a faint smile tugged at his lips as he leaned in, exhaling smoke with graceful nonchalance, his hand idly propping up his head on the table. Like a spent cigarette between his fingers, he smoldered slowly.

"You're fortunate it's my shift tonight. Siobhan would've shown you the door without a second thought. But for now, there's no need to rush." Gallagher murmured softly, his dark eyes fixed on your face. With his mere presence, he fostered a sense of comfort, yet it struck you as somewhat dubious, you can not anticipating any kindness from someone like him. The bartender showed no urgency, finding little reason to return to his dusty apartment, now permeated with the stale scent of smoke and alcohol, devoid of its former warmth since the departure of cherished companions. But here he remained, steadfast in his place, akin to a loyal canine awaiting the return of those who would never come back. Carefully extinguishing his cigarette in your glass, Gallagher retreated to the kitchen momentarily. Upon his return, he presented more revitalizing drink—neither sharp nor alcoholic, but rather pleasantly sweet—placing it in front of you before taking a seat opposite.