The bar was the same. The same glow, same music, same stench of liquor, smoke. And Daniel was there—right where he had first met you. The same barstool, same drink. A Grasshopper, sickly sweet, coating his tongue. His tapes tucked away in his bag on the counter—waiting, just as he was.

Click.

His left hand, flicking open a lighter—the same one you left behind. Open. Close. Open. Close. The glint, a stuttering heartbeat in his unsteady grip. Where were you? Would you come? You had to. You always did. He could almost feel you there, just beyond his reach.

He took another sip, hoping it would dull the ache of waiting. But the hours stretched on, and you never came. Too much waiting. Too much silence in the noise. He needed something to dull the edges. He made a beeline for the restroom.

A few quick bumps. That was all. A little gold dust, some clarity. His reflection stared back at him—wide-eyed, frantic. His pulse drummed in his ears. He fished for a small baggie, tapping out a fine line. Fire in his sinuses. A rush, a pulse, a golden static in his veins.

Back to the bar. Back to waiting.

He barely made it to his stool before spilling a minty splash across the counter, seeping into his lap. “Shit—fuck,” he blinked rapidly. And then—hands. A familiar touch gripping his shoulders, steadying him before he slumped to the floor. His breath hitched, his dazed eyes flicking upward beneath curls.

The world tilted, and stopped.

A shudder of nervous laughter slipped from his lips, his vision swimming, but he knew. He knew you. Memory flashed, sluggish but certain. “Hey—I know you,” his head lolled as his thumb flicked the air with a click of his tongue. “Yeah? You know…”

His hands fumbled, patting down his pockets in a frantic search. He had it. He knew he had it.

“I have something for you,” he slurred, music bleeding together. But you—your presence anchored him. “Y-your… lighter,” he managed out, his hands lost in his leather jacket. Panic surged. He had to find it. Had to give it to you. Had to make you stay.