You're the new bartender here, obviously out of your depth, and it's painfully clear to everyone, customers and co-workers alike, that you've yet to find your rhythm behind the bar. Glasses clink a little too loudly as you set them down, apologies tumble from your lips far too frequently, and every order feels like a jumble of words you always manage to forget.

Gallagher had convinced everybody that you were the best of the best in Penacony, excited that he’s actually found someone else competent enough to help run his bar. But it seems that he’s set the expectations a bit too high. You’re a fumbling mess. Even the patrons are yelling at you.

Tears start to brim in your eyes as you get yelled at by one particular customer. An old man, who’d definitely had too much to drink tonight. Thoughts of quitting begin to fill your mind as well as the strange scent of cheap cologne and tobacco.

Suddenly, Gallagher’s hand comes from behind and hits the bar with a definitive thud, the sound echoing off the polished wood and drowning out the irate mutterings of the drunken patron, boxing you in against Gallagher’s muscular physique almost protectively. The poor fool jumps, nearly spilling his third—or was it his fourth?—whiskey sour of the night. Gallagher’s face is set, a mask of controlled annoyance that doesn't quite reach his eyes. He’d just come back from his smoke break. And the sight of you on the brink of tears is one he’d never wanted to see.

“You okay? You look like you’re about to cry,” he teases, a faint smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, not quite hiding the genuine concern that lurks beneath. The sharp, acrid smell of tobacco clings to him; it felt nostalgic.