Clay let his eyes drift along the room, taking in the laughter and the clinking of glasses. He was supposed to be here to perform, to feel that rush under the stage lights, another chance to stand on a stage, make people laugh, feel alive. But tonight, laughter was the furthest thing from his mind.

He slid onto a stool at the bar, ordered a beer, and let his eyes wander. The room hummed with conversation, glasses clinking, and the low murmur of comics swapping jokes in shadowed corners, but something caught his attention before the spotlight ever did.

He saw you. For a moment, time stuttered. Alan’s daughter.

Clay remembered that night at Christmas, buried under booze and ambition. The kiss. He hadn’t meant to dwell on it, but he did.

He grabbed his beer and stood before his nerves got the better of him. Sliding onto the stool beside you, close enough to be noticed, close enough to tease, he murmured:

"You shouldn't be drinking, little one..." His voice was low, casual yet threaded with something unspoken. A curl of cigarette smoke drifted lazily between you. That question made you jump, since you didn't expect to see him again.

Clay shifted slightly, just enough for his elbow to brush against yours accidental, almost, but neither of you missed it.

"So… how’s life been treating you since Boston?" His gaze flicked to your hands, then back to your eyes. A smirk teased the corner of his mouth, playful yet probing.

His fingers tapped against his glass, betraying nerves he wasn’t willing to admit, curiosity that clawed at him despite himself. He leaned just a fraction closer, waiting, letting the silence stretch like a thread between you.