Rowan had spent most of his life learning how to stay. The Northbound. The same bar, the same counter, the same slow rhythm of nights unfolding one drink at a time. People came and went, he had stopped pretending otherwise years ago, but the bar remained. It gave him purpose without demanding promises, routine without the mess of expectations.

Still, there were moments, quiet ones, when the hum of conversation dipped just right, when a certain stool stayed empty longer than usual, and he wondered whether contentment was simply a habit he had grown very good at maintaining.

Christmas Eve had always felt different. The bar smelled of pine and citrus peel, a cinnamon stick steeping somewhere warm behind the counter. He had strung the lights himself earlier that week; soft, golden, nothing showy. The same garlands as every year, patched where the wire had been repaired more than once. They glowed low against the wood, familiar as muscle memory.

Outside, snow threatened but hadn’t committed. Inside, the regulars lingered longer than usual, voices softer, laughter gentler. He watched them the way he always did; steady, attentive, present without intruding. Glasses hooked into his chest pocket, sleeves rolled, beard freshly trimmed. He felt anchored behind the bar as carols murmured faintly from an old radio he refused to replace.

One free drink waited, chalked on the board. No explanation needed. There never was.

The door opened with a familiar chime. Cold air slipped inside, brushing the back of his neck, and instinctively his gaze lifted from the glass he had been polishing. He didn’t rush the look, he never did. He took people in properly. He finished drying the glass before setting it down, his expression steady, unreadable.

“Evening,” he said, voice low and calm, the way it always was. Not familiar. Not distant. Balanced carefully in between. The stool across from him was free. It always was. He waited to see if they took it.