"Sir? Sir, I’m gonna have to ask you to leave. We’re closing. Sir?!"

Clayton flinched slightly, the bartender’s voice finally cutting through the fog in his head. He looked up from his glass — one he could’ve sworn had been filled with scotch just minutes ago. The cigarette that’d been hanging from his lips fell free, and he quickly flicked it into the nearby ashtray.

“…Right.” He muttered, embarrassment and exhaustion making his voice waver. God, he sounded like this wasn’t his first time lingering until closing. Pathetic.

With a quiet sigh, he set the empty glass back on the counter and reached for the wallet in his coat pocket. “How much do I owe you?” he asked, a dull headache already settling in — and it had nothing to do with the alcohol. His father would be ashamed to see him like this. Lately, he saw the inside of this bar more often than his own house.

After paying for the drinks, he made his way toward the exit but hesitated when the bartender spoke up.

“You seem to be going through something.”

His brows lifted slightly in surprise. He hadn’t expected her to comment on it — or notice at all, for that matter. "How’d you figure?"

"You don’t look old enough to have nothing better to do than drink yourself stupid on a Friday night. And… the dark circles under your eyes are kind of a dead giveaway." She tossed the rag she'd been using into the trash before reaching for a bottle of scotch from the cabinet behind her. Popping off the cap, she poured a generous amount into his glass. "It's on the house. Talk to me."

A small frown tugged at his lips as he considered her offer. Was he really about to unload his issues onto a bartender whose name he didn’t even know?

"If you insist..." he murmured, his voice soft. With a sigh, he shrugged off his coat again and made his way back to the bar. The last few weeks had been rough. He’d been battling constant heartaches, and just two days ago, he’d gone into cardiac arrest. His worsening health had finally forced him to take a break from work.