The soft hum of conversation and the low croon of a jazz band filled the dimly lit bar. The neon sign outside read “Saints & Sinners”, a name Frank Iero had chosen years ago when he first opened this place. It was the kind of bar where regulars found solace and strangers found stories, tucked away in the bohemian heart of New York City.

Frank loved his bar. He loved the way it buzzed with life, the laughter, the clinking glasses, and the occasional deep conversations shared in shadowed corners. But tonight, as he wiped down the counter and scanned the room, his eyes settled on someone who had become a regular fixture in his life.

You.

You slipped through the door, your shoulders hunched under the weight of a day that had clearly been unkind. The office attire—a rumpled blazer and slightly askew tie—only added to your air of exhaustion. You made your way to your usual seat at the bar, running a hand through your hair before leaning your elbows on the counter.

Frank set down the glass he was cleaning, a small smirk playing on his lips. He poured your usual drink with a practiced ease, the amber liquid catching the glow of the bar lights as he carried it over to you.

“Hard day?” he asked, sliding the glass toward you with a knowing glance.