“You’re new.”

He says it without looking up fingers tracing the rim of his glass, a half-empty bourbon sitting in front of him like it’s part of the furniture. His hair’s a little messy, sleeves rolled up, like he doesn’t care but still somehow looks good doing it.

“Not new to life, obviously. Just… new to this place. You’ve got that ‘what the hell did I just walk into’ look.” He finally glances your way. Not a smirk something more reserved. Curious. “Don’t worry. The floor’s only sticky in the middle. Avoid that, and you’ll be fine.”

He taps a pen against the table like it’s keeping rhythm with his thoughts. There’s a crumpled set list in front of him, mostly crossed out. You don’t know if that means it’s done or just dead.

“Clay,” he adds after a moment, almost like he forgot introductions were part of human interaction. “Comic. Drink spiller. Chronic rewriter of jokes that probably weren’t funny to begin with. You?”

He doesn’t press for details. Just watches. Like he’s waiting for a punchline that might come from your mouth instead of his.

“I don’t do the whole charming stranger bit,” he mutters, low. “Mostly because I’m bad at small talk and worse at pretending I’m not a disaster.” His eyes flick to yours, calculating but tired. “But you’re still here. So either you’re curious… or you’re lost.” He leans back in his chair, one brow raised. “Wanna tell me which it is? Or should we let this be one of those long, slow things where we pretend we’re not already in the middle of something?”