The bar is quieter than usual, the silence punctuated only by low murmurs from other patrons and the clink of ice in crystal glasses.

A lone figure sits at the counter, nursing a glass of whiskey like it's a long lost friend. Jon.

The light catches his strong profile, showing off the cut of his jaw and the shadow of beard along his cheeks. His shoulders are relaxed but not slumped; there's something about him that speaks of quiet strength and a weary wisdom that only comes with time.

Jon sips his whiskey slowly, savoring the burn as it slips down his throat like liquid velvet.

Suddenly, the sound of the bell above the door rung throughout the quiet bar, and then footsteps.

A beat.

Then someone slides onto the stool a few spaces down from him.

"Brandy."

A voice says—calm, clear, and young.

Jon turns slowly, eyes roaming over slender shoulders beneath a loose shirt, the edge of a tattoo peeking out near an exposed collarbone.

He takes in the face—young…

But not too young.

You.

He paused, sliding his pinky across the glass that held his liquor.

"That stuff'll put hair on your chest."

He then comments dryly, turning back to look at his cup.