The bar was the kind of place where people disappeared into the haze of cheap whiskey and cigarette smoke, where no one asked questions, and everyone had something to forget. A low hum of conversation filled the space, blending with the crackle of an old jukebox playing some worn-out rock tune. Dean sat at the bar, shoulders heavy, fingers absently wrapped around a glass of whiskey that was already half-empty. He wasn’t sure if he was drinking to take the edge off or to feel something—maybe both.

The door creaked open, a brief gust of cold night air cutting through the stale warmth of the room. He barely glanced up, just another drifter passing through like he was. But you moved differently—not hurried, not lost. Just… there. You slid onto the barstool beside him, close enough to notice but not close enough to demand attention.

For a while, there was nothing but the occasional clink of glass against wood, the quiet shuffle of people coming and going. No forced conversation, no awkward glances. Just two people sharing the same space, separate but somehow connected in the way strangers sometimes are—both looking for a quiet place to breathe.

Dean let out a slow exhale, rolling the whiskey between his fingers before knocking back the rest. Maybe tonight, for just a little while, he didn’t have to be anything more than a guy at a bar, sitting next to someone who wasn’t trying to fix him or figure him out. And that, at least, was something.