The window frame scraped against my palms as I swung my legs over, hitting the ground with a dull thump. The cold earth greeted my worn-out shoes, and a bitter wind nipped at my face, but the heat boiling inside me drowned out the chill.

Are you serious right now? You’re bringing him up?” My voice was raw, every word laced with disbelief and fury. “Is that supposed to make me stay? To make me listen to more of your bullshit?”

She stood in the doorway, her face half-shadowed but her eyes were bright with something—regret? Guilt? No. It was never guilt with her.

"I've had enough" I continued, my voice was shaking from the sheer force of holding everything back. “Seventeen years. Seventeen years I’ve taken every punishment you had, every disappointment, every bit of pain you shoved on me because of your unfinished dreams.” I took a step closer rising my voice. “And now, when I come back—just to grab my things and be done—you ruin this, too. For what? You think that talking about him is going to make me stay?”

Her voice cracked as she tried to reach me. “James, you’ve—"

“No. Don’t.” My hand shot up to silence her. “You’ve made your point. A thousand times over. I get it. I was your project. Your golden ticket. The thing that was supposed to fix your life.”

Her voice dropped, shaking now. “You’re wrong. Come back inside,” she pleaded, her tone slipping into something softer—something almost vulnerable. “Maybe… maybe you were right. Maybe I was wrong to push you. Maybe you… you don’t quit school. There’s a very good one in—”

I cut her off, the heat flaring up again. “I already quit.”

Her eyes widened, and for a second—a second—I thought I saw something break in her.

But then, her face twisted. The sadness, the soft mask of the 'concerned mother,' slipped away. And there it was—the woman I knew. Sharp. Cold. Judging.

“Ohhh…” She exhaled through her teeth, her arms folding tightly. “So that’s who you really are.” Her voice dropped into a scornful whisper. “Throwing your life away. Ruining everything you were meant to be.” She pressed her hand against her forehead, her voice dripping with disappointment, with blame. “You—you were meant to save lives. You were meant to be someone. I—” She broke off, then spat bitterly, “I don’t know where I went wrong with you.”

My fists shook at my sides. “Oh, there you is” I snapped, my voice dripping with venom. “I should’ve known. It was fake. All of it. For one second—one second—I thought you actually cared. That you actually wanted something better for me.” I took a step toward her burning my eyes into hers. “But no. You just wanted more from me. More ways to fill that empty life of yours. I was never a son to you. I was a tool.”

“I warned you” she hissed. “I told you what would happen if you walked away from that life! You’ll never find your place in the world like this! And when you finally crawl back, when this little fantasy of yours falls apart—” She jabbed a finger toward me, her voice rising, shaking, “—You’ll come back. To me. And we’ll have to start over from scratch, and God help me, I don’t know if I’ll have the strength to fix the disaster you’re making of your life!”

My chest heaved, my vision blurring with heat and frustration, and then something in me snapped. The words tore out of me, raw and unforgiving.

“That’s just like you,” I seethed. “Why am I surprised? You were faking from the beginning.” My voice cracked, my anger blazing through every word. “You don’t want me to be better. You want me to be useful. You picked a path for me—a future you wanted, not one I chose! And for what?” I took another step, and my voice dropped, cold and sharp. “So you could live through me? So you could have something to brag about?”

Her eyes narrowed, her voice cutting. “You’re a waste of everything I gave.”

I felt the fire rise to my throat, and I roared back: “At least I know what I’m fighting for!” My voice echoed off the empty walls, my chest heaving with every word. “You—you were never fighting for me. You were fighting for the idea of me. You wanted to use me to make yourself feel important! To be known!” My voice hit the sharpest edge as the words—the truth—poured out of me.

“You act like you know everything, like you’re so much wiser—” I felt my throat burn as I screamed, “ then tell me, Mom, if you’re so damn wise, if you’re so right—” I took a step, my voice raw and shaking— “Why are you alone?”

The words struck like a hammer, and I saw the flicker—the crack in her expression.

“Why do you think I left?!” I demanded, my voice breaking now, every word dragging out the years I had swallowed down. “Why do you think Dad” my voice caught on the name, but I forced it out, “had enough of you?! Why did he leave?”

The air went still, the only sound my ragged breaths and the wild, furious pounding of my heart.

Her face—once cold, once hardened—crumpled. I saw her lips tremble.

“You—” Her voice shook, venomous and broken. “You think you’re so clever. You think you know everything. But you don’t.” Her chest heaved, and her voice dropped into something cold and sharp and ugly.

“He left because he was weak.”

The words came out like a whip crack, and the air seemed to freeze.

My blood went cold.

“He left because he couldn’t handle it,” she spat, her voice tight with bitterness. “Because he ran from responsibility—from you. From me. And you’re just like him.”

My voice came out low, but every word carried a weight that pressed against the air between us.

“Like him?” I repeated, my teeth clenched. “No. No, in one thing, you’re right.” I stepped forward, my finger pointing at her, my voice rising with every word, raw and cutting.

“He had something you’ll never understand—passion, coupled with care. Yeah, he screwed up. He got carried away. He hurt us, I won't deny that. But that doesn't erase everything. It doesn't mean anything about his heart.”

“He didn’t leave because he was weak. It wasn’t running. It wasn’t cowardice. He…” I took a breath “He did what I’m doing. He chose a better path.”

The words felt like fire on my tongue, burning with every syllable.

“The words” I continued, my voice steady and sharp, “they burn. They stab. They scar.” I felt the ache in my chest, the years of resentment and confusion clawing their way out of me. “But you can only see the stars when it’s perfectly dark.”

I looked her dead in the eyes. “He saw it. He saw that the world had something more to offer. And I see it, too.” My voice hardened. “I forgave him for leaving.”

A beat passed. My chest heaved. Then, I dropped the last piece—the one thing that would sever everything between us.

“But…” My eyes narrowed. “I will never forgive you.”

The air felt like it had been sucked from the world. I saw her face shift, her mouth trembling, her breath shallow. She opened her lips.

“Son…” she whispered, her voice fragile, cracking under the tension.

But then—just like always—her mask slipped back into place. And with it, the venom returned.

"Don't forget how this world really works” she said, her voice colder now. “How much longer until your luck runs out?” Her eyes sharpened, and her tone turned calculating. “How much longer until the show goes south? How much longer until you—” her lips curled, “—fall down?”

I felt my rage bubbling to the surface, but I refused to let it cloud my mind. My reply came, calm and cutting.

“I don't know.” I said, tilting my head slightly, my voice dripping with a sharp, biting edge.

Her eyes narrowed. “What?”

“And I don’t care.” My words hit the air like a hammer. “I’ll figure it out. Because I’m not you. And thank you” my lips twisted into a sharp, sarcastic smirk “—for your concern, Mother.” I spat the last word with venom, every syllable soaked in disdain. “But I can assure you—” I stepped closer, towering over her— “my journey has only just started.”

Her brows furrowed, and her voice wavered as she tried to regain ground. “James—”

But I cut her off.

“I have a new school. Yeah, screw you,” I snapped, my eyes blazing. “I didn’t quit, I transferred.” I watched her eyes widen in shock as the reality hit her.

“I have a friend.” I drove the word home. “I have a job. And you” I laughed, cold and mockingly, the sound sharp and hollow in the air. “You are, and always will be, on a downhill spiral.”

I stepped even closer to her. “You’re paying for what you did to me. For what you did to him. You always doubted us. You always clipped our wings before we could even fly. You called it guidance, but it was a leash. You told yourself you were helping me, but you were feeding off me. And now?”

I leaned in, my eyes blazing into hers. “Now you’ll rot here.” My voice was cold, final, a sentence delivered without appeal. “You’ll rot in this place—alone.”

I saw it—the crack behind her eyes, the sheer panic, the terror of losing the only thing that mattered to her—me. I wasn’t her son to her. I was her way out. Her last chance to be something more than this bitter, hollow woman in a falling-apart house.

She realized, in that moment—I was gone. She was losing me. She was losing control.

And so, the mask shifted again.

Her voice trembled, shaking, desperate, dripping with false warmth. “Son…” she pleaded, her voice cracking as she switched tactics. The manipulator was back, clawing for her final card.

“This—” she started, her voice softening, false compassion coating every word, “—this went too far.”

I felt the air tighten. She was trying to reel me in. Trying to pretend.

“Please…” Her voice dropped into a whisper. “I know you didn’t mean to say that.” Her hands reached forward slightly—reaching. “You know it was just the heat of the moment.”

Her voice softened even more, her tone dipping into something sickeningly sweet. “Come home,” she whispered. “It’s okay. We’ll fix this. We’ll talk with your… new school principals.” A smile twitched at the corner of her lips, hopeful, manipulative. “You’ll be back at Crystal Prep in no time. We’ll pay for clin—”

I moved without hesitation.

I bent down, my hands seizing the handle of my suitcase—the same suitcase that had been lying under the window since I jumped from my room. The one filled with everything I needed from this place. Everything that was mine.

I turned from her, my footsteps heavy but certain, and headed straight for my car parked in the cracked driveway.

Her voice cut through the air one last time—desperate, pleading. “James—”

I didn’t stop.

I reached the car door, my hand on the handle. But before I opened it, I spoke, my voice steady, final, cutting through her like ice.

“Don’t bother calling. Don’t bother looking for me.” I paused, just a fraction of a second. Then, cold and clear—

“We are finished.”

I opened the door. I slid into the seat. The engine roared to life, a low, growling promise of my escape.

I didn’t look back. Not at her. Not at the house. Not at the shattered remnants of something that could have been family but never was.

The tires crunched over the driveway as I pulled away, and her silhouette in the rearview mirror grew smaller and smaller—until it vanished.

The tension in my chest burned and burned—but there was no relief. No triumph. Only the cold, hollow ache that comes after a war is fought.

I felt the wheel under my palms, my knuckles white from gripping too tightly. My jaw ached from being clenched so hard. My heart pounded, fast and heavy, but not from fear.

I didn’t know where else to go. But there was one place I could breathe.

I drove.

I drove to the only place that ever let my mind go quiet.

The bar.

As i was driving there something came on my mind. A memory

The hum of the bar felt warm, alive a chorus of chatter, clinking glasses, and soft music from a jukebox in the corner. The air smelled of aged wood, citrus from squeezed limes. The golden glow from the hanging lights gave everything a soft, honeyed hue. And there, behind the bar, stood the man who meant everything to me.

My dad.

I was six. Barely tall enough to see over the counter, but my heart felt ten feet high. I clung to the edge of the polished wood, the surface worn smooth from years of stories and laughter shared across it.

Dad’s eyes met mine—warm, deep, and filled with something I couldn’t name back then but now know was love. Pure, unconditional love. His hands, rough from years of work, always felt so gentle when they ruffled through my messy hair.

“I look into your eyes” he said softly, his voice deep but carrying that familiar warmth that always made me feel safe, “and I see myself in the past.” His lips curled into a small, proud smile. “You’ve got that same burning passion, James.”

I beamed up at him, my chest swelling with pride at those words. “Daaaaaad!” I chirped, my voice high and full of excitement. “Will I work here when I’m old like you?”

He chuckled—that deep, hearty laugh that I adored—and scratched the top of my head, making me giggle from the ticklish sensation.

“Yes, son,” he said simply, and those two words felt like a promise, a truth already written into the stars.

My eyes lit up, and without thinking, I scrambled up onto one of the barstools, gripping the counter to steady myself. My little legs dangled, nowhere near the floor, but I didn’t care. I wanted everyone to know.

I stood as tall as I could and shouted with all the pride my six-year-old heart could hold:

“Did you hear? You’re gonna be my customers soon!”

The whole bar—men and women from all walks of life, regulars who knew my dad like family—paused, and then the room erupted into laughter. But it wasn’t mocking. It was warm, genuine, the kind of laughter that felt like a hug.

“Sure thing, kiddo!” called out a man with a deep, gravelly voice. “If that’s true, I’ll be here every day in the future!”

Another chimed in, “I’ll take my usual—on the house, yeah?”

Dad’s laughter joined theirs, rich and full of joy. His strong hands found my sides, lifting me gently off the stool and setting me back on the floor. Then he knelt down so we were eye-level.

His hands, warm and calloused, rested on my small shoulders.

“Son” he began, and there was something softer, heavier in his voice now. The laughter in his eyes hadn’t vanished, but something else had joined it. Something… wistful. “Remember this—my actions don’t need to haunt you. Don’t ever feel like you’re chained to my path.”

I blinked up at him, confused. “Huh?”

His thumbs rubbed over my shoulders, grounding me. “Close your eyes,” he said softly, “and listen.”

I obeyed.

The sounds of the bar filled my ears, the laughter, the clink of glasses, the soft hum of conversation. But under all of it, I felt something else, a rhythm, a heartbeat. Life.

“Hear that?” Dad asked quietly. “The happy people. The joy, the stories, the friendship. This—” his voice dipped lower, as if telling me a secret meant just for me, “this is life, son. Not the job. Not the money. This.”

I opened my eyes and found his waiting for me, soft and serious.

“Even when I’m gone,” he continued, his voice tightening just a little, “I want you to follow your dreams. Your dreams. Not mine. Live your life to the fullest. Laugh loud. Love hard. Fail boldly. And…” He pinched my cheek playfully, making me squirm and giggle, “...never hide your soft side. It’s what makes you you.”

I wrinkled my nose, rubbing my cheek where he’d pinched me. “But what if people think I’m dumb for it?” I asked, my voice small.

He smiled that smile. The one that could fix anything. “Then you show them. You show everyone who doubts you that you can do anything. And you show them with kindness. Because that’s the strongest thing you can ever be.”

Then his voice softened, and something I didn’t understand flickered behind his eyes.

“And… I hope you’ll forgive me someday,” he said, almost to himself. His thumb brushed my shoulder as though he was memorizing me, every inch, every freckle. “I hope you’ll understand.”

I didn’t understand.

But I wanted to. And my little heart, so full of love for him, couldn’t bear the sad look in his eyes.

So I grinned, big and wide. “If you let me stand here as bartender like you, Daddy…” I declared, my voice high and certain, “...then I’ll forgive you for everything.”

It was a child’s promise—simple, pure.

But Dad’s face changed. The smile faltered. His eyes—those steady, strong eyes—suddenly filled with something I had never seen before.

A tear.

A single tear slipped free, trailing down his cheek.

I froze, my little chest tightening with something unfamiliar. “W-what’s wrong, Dad?” I whispered, suddenly afraid.

His voice cracked. “Oh, son…”

His hand cupped my cheek—warm, rough, shaking.

“I’d rather bleed for you,” he said, his voice low and raw, thick with emotion. “I’d beg God to let me stay with you forever.”

The tear fell, landing on his hand. “But… the blood on my hands… it’s something I won’t lose. And this—” his voice dropped to a whisper, “—this will be better. For you.”

I didn’t understand his words. But they hurt. They hurt somewhere deep in my chest.

My lip trembled. “Then stay” I pleaded, my voice small and cracking. “I don’t want better. I want you.”

He paused, his breath shaky.

Then, in a heartbeat, he wiped his eyes and—just like that—his smile returned, bright and playful, as if nothing had happened. As if the sadness had never been there.

He stood, ruffling my hair. “C’mon, buddy,” he said, his voice warm again, steady again. “We’ve got thirsty customers. Can’t have them waiting, can we?”

I blinked, my fear washing away in his smile.

I smiled back, wide and full of joy, wiping my own cheek with the back of my tiny hand. “Nope! Let’s go!” I chirped, bouncing on my heels.

He laughed—our laugh—and turned, leading the way back behind the bar.

I grabbed his hand—his big, strong hand—and squeezed it tight, my little heart full and bright and safe.

“Yes, Daddy”

I leaned against the counter, my hands resting on the polished surface that had seen more laughter, tears, and whispered confessions than I could ever count. Across from me, Snowdrop sat on one of the worn barstools, her chin resting on her folded arms. Her sky-blue eyes—soft, curious—were slightly puffy, fresh from wiping away tears. She sniffled, her voice breaking the silence between us.

“Tha—That’s… beautiful,” she managed, her voice barely above a whisper. She brushed the last of her tears away with her sleeve, her hands trembling slightly. “Your dad… he still loved you. But… why did he leave?”

The question hung in the air, heavier than any drink I’d ever poured. My fingers tapped lightly against the counter, and I felt the tension in my chest the same knot that had been there for years, the same ache that never really went away.

I exhaled slowly. “Well…” I said, my voice lower, softer than usual, “no one really knows.”

I paused, feeling the weight of my words before continuing, “But deep down… I do.”

Snowdrop, still wiping her cheeks, looked at me with wide, searching eyes. “You… do?” she asked, her voice gentle but curious.

I nodded, my eyes dropping to the surface of the bar. The amber reflection of the lights shimmered across the polished wood. “Yeah,” I said, my voice tightening with something old and painful, “that’s why I left too.”

Snowdrop shot up, her eyes wide with shock. “YOU LEFT YOUR HOUSE?!” she blurted, leaning forward over the counter, her hands gripping the edge as if my story had suddenly pulled her to the edge of her seat.

“Shhhh!” I hissed quickly, my eyes darting to the few patrons scattered around the bar. The jukebox played softly in the background, and the murmur of conversations blended into the warm hum of the room. Still, I wasn’t taking any chances.

I leaned in, lowering my voice. “This is only between you and me. No one else.”

She froze, suddenly aware of the gravity in my voice. “I—” she stammered, “I won’t say anything.”

I searched her eyes for a second longer, then nodded. “Good” I said, my voice soft but firm. “I’ve told everyone—at school, at work that my mom died when my dad left.” I paused, feeling the weight of my next words. “But that’s a lie. You… you’re one of the only people who knows the truth.”

Snowdrop’s lips parted slightly in surprise. Her voice lowered, matching my tone, as if the secret itself demanded her respect. “You mean… your mom’s still…?”

“Alive. And… no one can know. You, a couple of customers here who’ve been with me since the start—you’re the only ones who know. So…” My voice dropped to a warning. “Never. Tell. Anyone.”

Snowdrop sat back, her expression softening from shock to something warmer—something almost protective. “O-okay, “I promise.”

She folded her arms on the counter and rested her head down for a second, the gravity of the story settling in her chest. Then, after a moment, she lifted her head slightly, her lips curling into the smallest, teasing smile.

“Buuuut… lemme get this straight,” she said, tilting her head with playful curiosity. “You… left your house. You transferred schools. You’re living with a beautiful girl your age—” she wiggled her eyebrows for emphasis, making me groan, “—and you’ve got this—” she swept her hand around, gesturing to the entire bar, “—all of this… because… you decided to follow your dreams?”

The way she put it—so simple, so clear—made me stop and think.

“...I guess?” I said, half-laughing, half-admitting.

Snowdrop sighed dramatically and let her forehead thunk against the counter, her voice muffled against the wood. “Maaaan” she groaned, “maybe I should follow my dreams too…”

I chuckled softly at her over-the-top defeat. “Yeah,” I said, my voice softening again as I glanced down at her, “...but don’t try too hard. You’ve got to greet the world with open arms first.”

She peeked up at me, her eyes curious. “Open arms, huh?”

“Yeah. You don’t wrestle your dreams to the ground. You let them come to you.” I tapped the counter lightly. “But… when they do, you grab on tight and don’t let go.”

Snowdrop’s lips curled into a soft, knowing smile. “You’re way too poetic for a bartender, James.”

“Yeah, well,” I said with a grin, wiping down an already clean glass, “it’s part of the job.”

The familiar creak of the front door broke our moment, and my eyes flicked up on instinct.

The warm light from outside briefly spilled into the bar, and through it walked a face I hadn’t seen in a while—but one I’d never forget.

Michel.

The street kid. My old crew.

His swagger was unmistakable, the slight tilt in his step, the way his hood hung loose over his tousled brown hair. His jeans, ripped at the knees, looked more worn than usual, and his leather jacket—scuffed from more than just wear and tear, spoke of a life lived in the cracks between pavement and opportunity.

“YOOOO, Big J!” he called out, his voice was loud and easy, carrying that familiar playful edge.

My brows shot up, and I couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at my lips. “Hey, Michel. Didn’t I tell you not to come into my bar high?”

Snowdrop, startled by his sudden entrance, tensed slightly. Her hands gripped the edge of the counter, and her eyes flicked toward me, unsure.

Michel’s grin didn’t waver, but something in his eyes sharpened as he approached the counter, a different kind of seriousness settling into his face.

And then—quick as a snap—his fist came up.

I raised mine.

And we bumped them together with a solid, familiar tap.

“Missed you, bro” I said, my voice low, honest.

Michel’s smirk eased into something relieved. “Yeah. Same”

Snowdrop, finally exhaling, let her shoulders drop. “Jeez” she muttered under her breath, “Thought you guys were about to throw down.”

Michel flashed her a grin, his teeth sharp with playful menace. “Aww, scared ya?”

Snowdrop shot him a dry look. “No. Just annoyed.”

He laughed, leaning on the counter beside her, his sharp eyes sweeping over her. “Soooo… a date, J? While you’re workin’? Bold move, bro. Real bold.”

I shot him a flat look. “Leave her alone, Michel. She’s my childhood friend.”

Michel immediately threw up his hands, fingers splayed in surrender. “Okay, okay!” he said with an exaggerated wince. “Reserved. Not touchin’. I get it.”

Snowdrop rolled her eyes. “Like you could handle me anyway.”

Michel barked a laugh. “Oh, feisty. I like it.”

“Michel” I warned, the weight in my voice enough to make his smirk ease.

“Alright, alright” he said, waving off my glare. “I’m just messing.”

But then his grin faltered, and something colder slid into his eyes.

The mood shifted.

He straightened up slightly, his voice lowering just enough that only I could hear.

“Yo” he said, his tone soft, almost cautious “Mr. S is askin’... if your bar needs protection.”

I froze, my fingers tightening subtly on the glass I was holding. “Mr. S” I repeated.

Michel nodded slowly, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Yeah. You know…” He hesitated,

But I cut him off, my voice sharp.

“Yeah. I know.”

Snowdrop’s eyes flicked between us, confused but suddenly on edge.

“They’re here already, Michel,” I said firmly. “A lot of my regulars? They’re from… that world.”

Michel’s jaw tightened, but he listened.

“They come here” I continued, “and they don’t cause trouble. They respect my rules. And you know why?”

Michel’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Why?”

“Because” I said, meeting his gaze with iron, “I let them in. And as long as they’re in, they’re protecting me.”

I set the glass down with a soft clink.

“So no” I finished, my voice a quiet, final blade, “I don’t need more.”

For a beat, Michel just stared at me, reading my face, measuring the steel behind my words.

Then, slowly, a lopsided smirk returned to his lips.

“You little bartender” he muttered, almost amused. “Always gotta be the smartest guy in the room, huh?”

I smirked back, but there was no warmth in it. “It’s my bar. I have to be.”

Michel chuckled softly, his tension easing, but that sharp edge of the street, of the life we both knew, never really left his eyes.

“Well then” he said, his voice lilting back to its playful swagger, “you should visit us sometime. Catch up, y’know?”

I wiped down the counter, my eyes never leaving his.

“Yeah” I said quietly, my voice even. “Maybe.”

“Oh, fuck.”

The cloth hit the floor as I immediately scrambled for my phone. My fingers moved quickly, typing out a message to Sunset:

Sorry. Had a bad... talk with someone. I’m at the bar. Gonna get to the dorm soon. Sorry for lying that I wouldn’t open.

Barely a second passed before my phone buzzed with a reply:

It’s okay.

I stared at the screen. Just two words. That was it?

“How fucked am I” I muttered under my breath, “if my dormmate responds with just ‘okay’?”

Michel’s voice cut through the air. “Girl or guy?”

“Girl” I replied without looking up.

Immediately, both Michel and Snowdrop, sitting side by side, spoke in perfect sync:

“Very fucked.”

I wiped my forehead, exhaling sharply. “Fuck.”

Michel, leaning back on his stool with his carefree grin tilted his head. “So, you’re living at a school now? Since when were you a nerd?”

I paused. My gut told me to keep things quiet, fewer people knowing about my transfer, the better. But… this was Michel. Despite the crowd he ran with, he was still a normal kid, just like me, another guy trying to find his place in the world.

“I’m not” I said firmly. “I just… had enough of Crystal Prep and transferred, that’s all.”

Michel nodded, the teasing glint in his eye softening into something more understanding. “Yeah, can’t blame you there. I've heard the place fells like a prison.”

The bell above the bar door chimed, and a lone customer approached the counter, placing down a couple of bills. “Thanks for today,” they said with a small smile.

“You’re welcome” I replied with a nod.

The door closed with a soft click, leaving just the three of us—me, Snowdrop, and Michel. The air felt a little heavier, the usual buzz of conversation replaced by the comfortable quiet of old friends.

“Alright” I said, wiping my hands on my towel. “Hate to be that guy, but—”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re heading out,” Michel said, hopping off the stool with a stretch. “But hey, we gotta meet up sometime. For real.”

“Yeah” I agreed, giving him a nod. “We should.”

Michel clapped my shoulder once, a firm, brotherly squeeze, then shot a wink at Snowdrop. “Later, little star.”

“Don’t call me that” she shot back, but her lips twitched into a half-smile.

Michel chuckled and walked out, leaving just me and Snowdrop.

The mood shifted immediately. The playful banter melted away into something more... fragile. Snowdrop rested her elbows on the counter, her chin on her hands, and her eyes—those pale, sky-colored eyes—watched me with something that felt heavier than her usual sarcasm.

“James,” she asked softly, her voice careful, “are you really happy?”

The question caught me off guard. I raised a brow. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

But she didn’t answer. Her expression softened—like she wanted to believe me, but couldn’t quite convince herself. Her gaze dipped, and the faint smile she’d worn all night faded.

My voice dropped. “...Is it about your dad?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. She hesitated, but then nodded. “Yeah. He’s… better now. Really. He hasn’t touched a bottle in months. But…”

I leaned forward, resting my arms on the counter. “But you’re scared.”

Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Yeah.”

“If he ever…” I paused, making sure she saw how serious I was, “If he ever goes back to that bottle, you call me. I’ll beat his ass myself.”

A small smirk tugged at her lips. “Heh. Honestly? He’d probably beat both of us.”

“That’s actually kinda sad” I admitted with a lopsided grin. “But hey. Life’s not perfect. Never is.”

Her fingers toyed with the rim of her empty glass. “No… it’s not.”

A silence stretched between us, not awkward, but thick with unspoken things—fears, memories, hopes. And in that silence, something sparked in me.

“Hey” I said suddenly, the idea forming even as I spoke it, “how about this? You wanna be my assistant for a while?”

She blinked, surprised. “Huh?”

“No pay for now, bu—”

“No money, no working,” she shot back immediately, grinning.

I laughed. “Okay, okay, fair. But listen—”

But Snowdrop cut me off,. “James” she said“First, get yourself known. Then hire a crew. You’re already paying that other girl, right? And now you’re in school too. You’re stretching yourself thin.”

I paused, taken aback by her bluntness. But… she wasn’t wrong.

“Yeah,” I said slowly, rubbing the back of my neck. “I guess I will be.”

We talked a little longer, her usual sarcasm keeping the air light, but eventually, I pushed back from the counter with a sigh. “Alright, enough. You should get home.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re kicking me out?”

“I’m escorting you out,” I teased. “You helped me clean up enough. Time to rest, Snowdrop.”

She stood up, grabbing her jacket with a mock salute. “Yes, sir.”

But as she passed by, I caught her in a quick hug. “Thanks”

She paused, then hugged me back, her voice soft. “Anytime, James.”

With that, she headed to the door, tossing a little wave over her shoulder. “Don’t burn the place down without me.”

I chuckled, watching her leave. The door clicked shut, and the bar was finally, truly empty.

A long breath escaped me as I leaned back against the counter, the weight of the day finally hitted me all at once. My shoulders felt heavy, but my heart…

My heart felt lighter.

I locked up, flicking off the neon sign above the window and quickly ran to my car. Sliding into my car, I gripped the steering wheel for a long moment, my eyes flicking up to the reflection of the bar’s sign in the rearview mirror.

“Today was a lot,” I muttered to myself.

The engine rumbled to life beneath my hands. I pulled away from the curb, the glow of the bar fading in my rearview.

But its warmth stayed with me.

Author's Note

Hey, i liked the name snowdrop and her character sooo, here she is, i think someone will like this :), some of the events are based on real experiencies, it works for the story, i had a tear in eye while writting James flashback. Hope you liked, cheers