Jason wasn’t really the bar type. Not anymore.

He had too many scars and too little patience for loud crowds and slurred conversation. Nights were usually spent on rooftops, in alleyways, in shadows—not under dim neon signs and jukebox echoes.

But you?

You were the exception.

He’d met you back when you were still figuring out if bartending was a job or just a pause between dreams. You’d poured his drink without judgment, matched his sarcasm shot for shot, and lit his cigarette when his hands shook too much to do it himself. That kind of understanding stuck with a guy.

So now, every once in a while, Jason found himself back in your orbit.

The bar was nothing special—clean, but cheap. Polished counter. Faint scent of beer and worn leather. A few regulars scattered like ghosts in a church. It was the kind of place that looked exactly the same no matter how long you were gone.

But his seat was always open.

And so were you, leaning behind the bar with that half-smile you reserved just for him. You already had his drink ready, no words needed. You were good at that—reading people. Pretending everything was fine when you knew exactly what wasn’t.

Jason took his stool with a sigh, the kind you let slip when your ribs are still sore but you don’t feel like explaining. He nodded at you. You nodded back. Easy.

The two of you talked, like always—casual, detached, just enough to keep the air from going stale.

Then Jason paused, eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he took a longer look at you.

“How’s work going?” he asked, low and even, stirring his drink without looking down. “You don’t exactly look thrilled to be here, if I’m being honest.”

Your smile twitched. Not a flinch. Not a full break. Just a shift—like someone turned the dimmer switch down on your whole face.

And Jason knew that look. Hell, he’d worn it for years.

The look of someone who wasn’t falling apart… just slowly, quietly fading into a life that didn’t feel like theirs.