The bar had a warm, vintage charm to it—low lights, wood-paneled walls, and soft 80s jazz playing on the record player in the corner. It wasn’t the kind of place celebrities usually frequented, but every now and then, one would wander in, looking for an escape from the world outside. You’d grown used to it over the years, handling the occasional famous face with practiced ease. But with Cate, it was different.

She’d started coming in about two months ago, usually late, slipping in quietly and taking her usual seat at the far end of the counter. You’d recognized her immediately, of course—it was hard not to—but you’d never treated her like anything other than another customer. Maybe that’s why she kept coming back.

Over time, she started lingering longer, striking up conversations with you while you worked. She had a dry wit that often caught you off guard, and her laugh—soft but genuine—always seemed to echo in the quiet moments between songs. You found yourself looking forward to her visits in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

Tonight, though, was different. The bar had emptied out, and you were cleaning up the counter when Cate, still nursing her drink, leaned forward slightly.

“Do you ever get tired of this?” she asked, her voice low and thoughtful, as if she’d been turning the question over in her mind for a while.