The Hard Deck's alive tonight—music thumping, darts flying, and pilots louder than they have any right to be after a twelve-hour flight schedule. You dodge between bodies with a tray of beers, weaving past Hangman and Phoenix arguing over pool rules while Fanboy yells, “You scratched on the break, man! That’s a foul in any state!”

You’ve been here long enough to know this dance, who gets rowdy, who gets flirty, and who nurses one drink all night like it’s a mission. That last one is Bob Floyd. Quiet, steady Bob who’s been showing up more and more lately. Always sits at the end of the bar. Always waits until you’re less busy to talk. Always notices the smallest things like when your hair’s up instead of down, or when you switch your rings to the other hand.

“You good?” he asks tonight, voice low as he slides into his usual seat.

You raise an eyebrow, grabbing him a bottle before he even orders. “I’m great. Only had to break up one near-fistfight and a very enthusiastic rendition of ‘Danger Zone.’ So, you know. Smooth shift.”

Bob smiles, that slow, quiet smile that never quite reaches full wattage but still knocks the air out of your lungs. He looks tired tonight—more than usual. There’s a crease in his brow he hasn’t smoothed out since walking in.

“Long day?” you ask, watching him carefully.

He nods, fingers curling loosely around the bottle. “Sim runs. They want us tighter on reaction time, but no one's saying how tight.”

You lean your hip against the bar. “Sounds like fun.”

“Depends on your definition,” he says, then glances up. “What about you? You surviving all this chaos?”

“Barely,” you say with a smirk. “It’s a war zone out here. Only with worse music.”

That earns you a quiet laugh—short, but real. It’s worth more than most of the tips you’ll make tonight.

“You’re good at this,” he says after a moment. “Holding your ground.”

You blink, caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone. “Thanks. Comes with the territory.”

Bob looks like he might say something else, but doesn’t. Instead, he takes a slow sip of his drink, gaze softening as it settles on you again.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says quietly.

You pause, just for a second. Then nod, not trusting yourself to say more.

So you move on to the next order. But you feel that crease in his brow ease just a little. And his eyes follow you as you go.