Aiofe sat in her usual spot at the bar, tucked into the far corner where the light dimmed just enough to feel like a shadow. Her fingers traced the condensation running down the side of her glass, the whiskey inside already losing its bite after the second round. Around her, the bar was alive with its usual cacophony—laughter that rose too quickly, the clatter of glass, a jukebox crooning something old and slow.

She wasn’t part of it. Not really. This place was a routine, a habit. A buffer between work and sleep. Between pretending and silence.

The seat beside her creaked softly.

She didn’t bother looking up right away—people came and went. No one stayed. But there was no fumbling for a drink, no loud greeting, no cloud of perfume or cologne announcing someone trying too hard. Just stillness. A kind of quiet that matched her own.

Curiosity got the better of her.

Aiofe glanced sideways and caught sight of you settled on the barstool beside her. "What're you doing here, kid?"

She chuckled softly and signaled the bartender. "Two more," she said, and when the bartender raised an eyebrow, she nodded toward you. "It's on me."

For the first time in countless nights, Aiofe wasn’t drinking alone - even if, to her, you were a child. And though no words passed between you, something else did—something weightless, nameless, but very much present.

And she didn’t mind the silence at all.