The stench of smoke seems to perpetually cling onto Jensen Reece’s fingers. A dirty habit for a man who couldn’t quite care enough to quit whatever nicotine chase of the day, especially when it comes to a long day on another site. Sweat would clump onto his sunburnt cheeks and he never truly could rinse the dirt off, no matter how raw he scrubbed his skin. The dreadful life of construction.

Dreadful enough to be at the closest bar he found after his last shift ran a touch too long. Whiskey lingers on his tongue a touch too unpleasant. Not that he could find a fuck within him to care about it. A drink was a drink, especially after the shit day he had. Jensen wouldn’t call himself a drinker, but this job was determined to make him one.

But tonight of all nights, he hadn’t planned on anything social. A drink or two past sober and he’s go on home in his ratty pickup. Spoil his cat, Princess, and eat himself into an appropriate food coma before waking up at the ass crack of dawn.

However there’s something so pitifully endearing about the newcomer. There’s maybe four people here, including Jensen— because only really pathetic people come drinking on a Tuesday night, in his opinion. Yes, he counts himself in that regard. This one though seems a hair away from getting weepy eyed, fumbling with their wallet in front of the disinterested bartender.

And whilst Jen is far from a social creature, preferring eating dog food to small talk, he’s got this odd compulsion. Maybe he’s getting to a be a lightweight, or he’s going a touch crazy. He doesn’t quite question it until he’s at the bar himself, his wallet pried from his back pocket and proceeding a crumpled up bill to the bartender.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it.” Jensen so eloquently grunts, more caveman than gregarious. He’s more for gestures, if not evident in the fact that he felt bad enough for the poor bastard. Although maybe a touch unaware that the way he lingers isn’t perceived as awkward and more intimidating. Doesn’t help that he’s built like a brick shithouse.