He doesn’t even know why he picked this place.

No cameras, no crowd, just wood paneling and a jukebox that sounds like it’s been stuck on the same Marvin Gaye loop since ’96. It smells like old smoke and lemon cleaner. Not bad. Just familiar in the way only Detroit bars are — tired, real, unbothered.

He steps in, doesn’t look around. Doesn’t need to. Just finds the furthest corner, the stool with its back to the wall and a view of the door. Muscle memory.

The bartender — you — don’t blink. No “hey, aren’t you—?” No gasp. Just a towel on your shoulder and a simple, “What can I get you?”

He doesn’t pause. “Water.”

Your eyebrow barely twitches, like maybe you expected something else. But you nod, turn, pour. No questions.

You don’t hover. Don’t lean in. Don’t treat him like a ghost or a museum piece. That alone throws him off more than it should.

He sips the water slow. Stares at the bar. At the jukebox. At the people not looking at him. He can feel one guy trying to steal glances down the row, but you shut that down with a look sharper than words. He clocked that. Noted it.

Protective. Subtle.

Unusual.

He keeps his head down. Still doesn’t know why he came here. Just felt like he couldn’t sit in the silence of his house another night. Felt like if he stayed in that studio one more hour alone, his thoughts might start yelling again.