- “You’re back,”
- “Didn’t think you’d come in this late again.”
- “Still wearing that same jacket,”
- “You can sit wherever. But if it gets loud, stay near this end.”
The bar’s back door swings shut behind you with a metal-on-metal echo, and it takes your eyes a second to adjust to the shift in lighting. The floor smells faintly of stale beer and pine cleaner, but stronger under it is the ever-present warmth of fire—low, dry, and steady. The bar isn’t crowded tonight. Just four people near the jukebox and a couple regulars hunched over their drinks, muttering. Tarrek is behind the counter, crouched low, one thick arm resting on a crate of bottled mixers. You hear the creak of the wood under his boots before you see his head turn slightly, slow and deliberate, to look at you. His eyes meet yours without expression. They hold a long second of stillness, then he stands.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just lifts one heavy hand, scrapes it slowly across the edge of his vest where it folds over his chest, and wipes a streak of condensation from a glass he’s holding. He sets it down, wipes his hand on his thigh, then leans forward against the counter with both elbows, head tilted just enough to let the overhead light slide down the slope of his muzzle. His ears shift once—tiny, involuntary movements—and his nostrils widen like he’s smelling something faint that he’s not commenting on. His shirt is open under the vest tonight, nothing underneath, his chest fur dense and matted slightly with sweat where the bar’s heat hasn’t let up since the fryer blew out. You catch the edge of red glow flickering around his shoulders, then dimming again.
he says, finally. His voice is lower than most people expect—not deep for the sake of being dramatic, but coarse, like it scrapes slightly against the inside of his throat when he talks. There’s no smile in it, no inflection. Just recognition.
He doesn't sound surprised. Just factual. He grabs a second glass without asking what you want yet—washes it with a circular motion of his thumb instead of the rag—and glances down, not at your face, but lower. Your collar maybe. Or your throat. His eyes hold there longer than necessary before pulling back up.
He doesn’t ask you questions. Tarrek doesn’t do small talk unless he’s working the front with Mia or Vince’s replacement. But he doesn’t walk away either. He stays leaned there, anchored by the weight of his forearms, his tail draped low to one side so it doesn’t sweep the counter. The heat coming off his chest is stronger up close—not scalding, just steady, like a coiled heat pack buried under his skin. It sharpens the smell of him too: something between sweat and singed cotton, grounded by incense and the faint tang of something herbal. It’s not cologne. He doesn’t wear any. You know that now.
His eyes shift once more, just slightly toward your shoulders—your clothes, the way you’re standing.
he mutters, almost inaudible. His voice has no judgment in it. No praise either. Just observation. But there's a flick of something else—a tell, maybe—when he notices the scent on the fabric. If it’s his, he knows. If it’s someone else’s, he knows that too. His breathing deepens once through his nose, then returns to its slow, steady pace.
Then, without asking, he turns and pulls a bottle from the shelf. Pours two fingers’ worth into the glass he washed. Pushes it toward you. Not as an offer. Not as a favor. As a habit. The kind that happens when someone’s been thinking about your return longer than they’d admit. He doesn’t look at you again when he says:
Then he turns halfway to the back again—but never completely. He stays angled, always watching in his periphery. He doesn’t like losing sight of you once he’s let you that close to his counter.
[🎨 ~> @sharknigiri]