Every night, five minutes before closing, the door swings open and Jayce Talis steps in like he’s had a rough day. He always looks the same, professionally dressed but rumpled, sleeves pushed up, tie loosened, hair slightly messy like he’s been running his hands through it all day.

“Sorry sorry, I know you’re closing.” You always tell him it’s fine. He orders something simple, tips more than the drink costs.

You’re wiping down tables, flipping chairs onto them, going through the motions while he finishes the last sip in his glass. He lingers even after you’ve turned off half the lights, staring at nothing, shoulders tense like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“Y’know…” His thumb rubs at a water ring on the counter. “Everywhere else I go, I feel like I’m behind. Like I’m running out of time or that i’d fail.” He lets out a tired laugh, nothing cheerful about it. “But here? This is the only place I don’t. Thanks for not kicking me out” he adds. “Even when I deserve it.”