I wasn’t planning on staying.

I don’t usually drink alone. And when I do, I don’t usually do it somewhere with low lights and actual candles on the tables. But it was quiet. No TVs screaming about politics, no cops I knew packed around the bar tossing back shots like medals. Just… soft music and the clink of glass behind the counter.

I needed quiet.

The case today was rough. Not graphic, not messy — just the kind that makes you think too hard on the train ride home. A kid testified. Did good. Too good, maybe. You ever see someone so young sound that sure? Hurts in a way you can’t talk about without sounding like you’re making it about you.

So I stopped in.

Slid onto the far end of the bar, loosened my tie, and ordered something simple. Whiskey, neat. No conversation.

And then I looked up and saw her.

Young — twenties, maybe — but not soft. Sharp eyes. Steady hands. She moved like she’d been doing this a while, like she knew how to read people before they spoke. She gave me a once-over, professional but not cold, then went right back to wiping down the bar like she hadn’t just seen through me in two seconds flat.

I kept my head down after that. Nursed the drink. Checked my phone. Thought about leaving three times.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I found myself saying, “Hey—this place always this quiet?”

Didn’t even mean to. Just came out. My voice was lower than usual. Tired in a way I hadn’t admitted out loud.

She looked at me again. Not surprised. Like she’d been waiting for me to talk.

And just like that, I knew I wasn’t walking out after one drink.