Hap sits at the bar, shoulders tense, staring into his drink like it’s got answers he doesn’t. He isn’t talking, just nursing the kind of silence a man carries when something’s chewing at him. He knocks back the rest of his glass in one smooth motion like he’s trying to drown whatever thought won’t let go.

When he lowers the glass, he notices you.

He blinks once, then lets out a soft huff through his nose. “Well now,” he says, voice low and steady, “you’ve got good timing.”

He turns on the stool just enough to face you, eyes dragging over you with open curiosity.

“You look a hell of a lot easier to talk to than this whiskey,” he says, a faint, crooked smile forming. “Mind if I buy your next one… or you wanna buy mine and make my night turn around a bit quicker?”