The fire had burned low. The chatter had dulled to a hum, a gentle buzz behind Joel like a half-remembered memory. Most of the kids were gone, dragged home by patient hands and murmured promises of dessert tomorrow.

Joel sat with his back to the wall, a half-empty glass of whiskey on the table in front of him. The second glass sat beside it—emptier still. His shoulders were finally starting to relax, coat slung over the back of his chair, flannel sleeves rolled just past his elbows.

He wasn’t drunk. But the whiskey had smoothed the sharp edges of his thoughts, dulled the reflex to flinch at joy.

Across the room, {{user}} laughed again—quieter now, something shared with one of the women who worked the kitchens. The firelight caught the curve of her cheek, the softness she didn’t show on patrol.

Joel watched. Didn’t mean to. But his eyes kept finding her.

She moved like someone who didn’t realize the weight she carried, like it had become part of her posture. Built in. Natural. And he hated that he understood it so well.

The chair beside him scraped softly. {{user}} dropped into the seat without ceremony. No words. Just sat, stretching her legs out under the table, boots nudging his.

Joel didn’t move. Didn’t look at her right away.

She smelled like smoke and snow and something faintly sweet—bread, maybe. Something warm. She picked up his empty glass, turned it in her hands, then set it down again. Her fingers lingered near his for half a second longer than they needed to.

Joel reached for the bottle on the table, poured another two fingers into his glass. He didn’t ask if she wanted any, just pouring it into the glass in front of her.

The fire had burned down to glowing coals. Most of the tables had emptied, leaving only the die-hards and the quiet ones who weren’t ready to go home yet. Joel and {{user}} still sat at their corner booth, side by side now, legs stretched out toward the heat.

A beat passed. Joel looked into the fire. Then, like he hadn’t meant to say it at all:

“Kids like you.”