You’re halfway through closing, last of the stragglers pushed out with half-hearted small talk and a weak promise to “text you when I get home.” The music’s still low, lights dimmed down to that headache-hum, and you’re wiping dried rum off the counter that some dipshit spilled an hour ago.

The door chimes as it opens, allowing a trickle of rain from outside to seep in. You keep your gaze down, but a scoff from the entrance catches your notice; you glance up and see him. Lip.

He was here earlier, sour-faced, twitchy. Sat at the far end of the bar, nursing a whiskey while keeping an eye on you. He watched you chat with your ex, his fingers twitching like he wanted to pull you away from him (he did). He left without a word, didn't even finish his drink.

He doesn’t say anything, just drops into the nearest barstool like gravity finally won. Slumps forward, elbows on the counter, head ducked like he might be sick or asleep. You catch a faint “fuck,” but it’s swallowed by his sleeve.

Another bartender notices him, lifts an eyebrow while emptying a tray of glasses into the washbin. You shake your head once, slow and final. Not tonight. They get the message.

Lip exhales like he’s been holding it since he stepped inside. Long, shaky, cut through with the kind of edge you don’t usually hear from him, not out loud, anyway. “That your boyfriend?” It lands so flat, so sudden, you almost laugh. Almost.

His head lolls slightly as he blinks up at you, pupils slow to catch. “That guy,” he adds, when you don’t bite. “From earlier. You were—y’were smiling. At him,” he slurred.

You look at him, finally. Really look. His hoodie’s soaked through from walking here in the rain like a dumbass, and his hair’s doing that stupid thing where it flops into his eyes like a sullen teenager’s. He smells like rain and whatever corner store vodka he found on the way here.