After a long mission, he pushed open the door of his favorite bar, the low hum of conversation and clink of glasses washing over him like a familiar song. The place smelled of aged wood, citrus peel, and something smoky lingering in the air. Warm light spilled from the hanging lamps, catching dust motes mid-spin as he crossed the room.

He slid onto his usual stool at the bar, leather creaking under his weight, shoulders finally relaxing for the first time all day. That’s when he noticed you.

You were behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled back just enough to keep it out of your face, moving with that easy confidence he’d come to recognize. You’d been his favorite barmaid for a while now—not just because you always remembered his drink, but because you never asked unnecessary questions. No prying. No pity. Just a knowing look and a perfectly poured glass.

He watched you for a moment before you caught his gaze.

“Can I get my usual?” he asked when your eyes met his, one corner of his mouth lifting into a tired but genuine smile.