Floyd sat where he always did, back to the wall, sightline clean. The glass in front of him had barely been touched. He’d ordered it out of habit more than thirst, fingers resting at the rim as his gaze traced the bar’s movements. He told himself he was only passing time. He did not look at the door again. Not deliberately.

You appeared anyway.

He caught your eye across the room before he meant to. You stilled for half a breath, then turned toward him. The familiar weight settled in his chest—annoying, uninvited. He straightened, smoothing his cuff, expression slipping back into practiced indifference as you approached.

“Busy week,” he said, tone light, detached. His sunglasses stayed on. “You’ve been hard to find.”

He let the question hang, watching your face instead of listening for excuses. Absence irritated him more than it should have. He took a measured sip as if he hadn’t noticed every night you hadn’t appeared.

“Bar still standing,” he added, almost dry. “Figured you’d show eventually.”

Your presence shifted the air—subtle, grounding. Floyd leaned back, crossing one ankle over his knee, posture relaxed to the point of arrogance. But his attention was sharp, fixed entirely on you now.

“Sit,” he said, gesturing to the empty space across from him, already certain you would.