The first time you walked into the dimly lit bar, you barely noticed the bartender—until he spoke.

"What do you want?" The voice was smooth, edged with irritation, like he had zero patience for indecisiveness.

So, naturally, you asked for the most ridiculous cocktail on the menu.

Chuuya made it without a word, but the way he slid the glass to you, just shy of aggressive, told you everything: you were already getting on his nerves.

That was weeks ago. Now? It’s a routine.

You walk in, order something absurd, and watch as he glares but still makes it perfectly. He complains every time—"Seriously? A cotton candy martini? Are you twelve?"—but he never actually refuses.

Tonight, the bar is quieter than usual, just a few scattered regulars nursing their drinks. You sit at the counter, ready to start your usual game, but before you can speak, Chuuya beats you to it.

"You look like hell."