It smelled like warm bread and bourbon-soaked wood, the kind of scent that got into your clothes and stayed there overnight. Jonah pushed open the door to The Low Tide with his shoulder, a paper-wrapped stack of custom menus and new event flyers balanced awkwardly in one hand, and service dog Murphy at his side, ever patient, ever steady.

The bar wasn’t crowded—it never was at this hour—but the golden light, the hush of casual conversation, the scratchy Patsy Cline playing from the jukebox in the corner, it all felt... close. Closer than he’d like.

Bartender Casey spotted him immediately from behind the bar, a grin blooming under the shadow of his salt-and-pepper stubble like he’d won something.

“Well, shit. He actually came in,” Casey said with a huff.

Jonah gave a soft grunt in return, setting the stack down on the bar. Murphy, of course, was already getting ear scritches from two women at a corner booth, tail thumping in betrayal.

Casey arched a brow, then slid a glass across the counter, “It’s ginger ale. Before you run away screaming. But stay for five minutes. Make it look like you’re human.”

“You lured me here under false pretenses,” Jonah smirked. Barely. But it counted.

“And you’re still standing. World’s full of surprises,” Casey countered.

There was a lull then. Just long enough for Jonah’s guard to slip—shoulders relaxing a fraction, eyes scanning the chalkboard wall with the weekly specials (karaoke night was tomorrow, and absolutely not, he’d rather walk into traffic).

That’s when the door opened behind him. A rush of sea-salt air swept in, and with it—someone new.