The wine bar on Alder Street didn't try to impress anyone.
Its sign was small, its windows narrow, and its door creaked softly every time it opened. People usually passed it without noticing, mistaking it for just another quiet storefront wedged between louder places with brighter lights.
Maya liked it that way.
She stood behind the bar, polishing a glass she'd already cleaned twice, watching the amber glow of early evening settle into the room. The shelves behind her were lined with bottles from small vineyards, each one chosen carefully. Every label told a story — and Maya had memorized them all.
At twenty-four, she was younger than most people expected an owner to be. She had inherited the bar from her aunt two years earlier, along with the responsibility of keeping it alive. Some nights were busy. Others were so quiet she could hear the hum of the refrigerator breathing beside her.
Tonight felt like one of those quiet nights.
The door opened.
Maya looked up out of habit, already preparing a polite smile meant for customers who stayed for one glass and left without saying much.
But the man who stepped inside didn't look like someone in a hurry.
He paused just past the threshold, scanning the room as if committing it to memory — the warm lighting, the handwritten menu board, the way the bar curved slightly instead of sitting straight.
He had dark hair, a little too long, and wore a jacket that looked like it had seen a lot of seasons. When his eyes met hers, he smiled — hesitant, not practiced.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi," Maya replied. "You can sit anywhere."
He chose a stool near the end of the bar, close enough for conversation but far enough to feel intentional. She noticed that, too.
"What can I get you?" she asked.
He glanced at the menu, then back at her. "Do you have… tea?"
The question caught her off guard.
"We do," she said after a beat. "Most people don't ask."
He shrugged, a little embarrassed. "I don't drink. But I like places like this."
Maya nodded, surprised by how much she liked that answer. She turned to prepare the tea, selecting a loose-leaf blend with citrus notes — something warm, something thoughtful.
"I'm Maya," she said, setting the cup down.
"Liam," he replied. "Thanks for not making it weird."
She smiled. "It's only weird if someone decides it is."
The bar stayed quiet, but the silence didn't feel heavy. Liam watched the room the way people do when they're genuinely present, not scrolling through a phone or counting minutes.
"You own this place?" he asked.
"I do."
"That's impressive."
"It's exhausting," she said honestly. Then added, "But I love it."
He nodded like he understood.
As the minutes passed, conversation unfolded naturally — about the neighborhood, about music playing softly through the speakers, about how some places feel like they're waiting for the right people to find them.
Maya found herself laughing quietly, leaning on the bar without realizing she'd stopped working.
When Liam finally stood to leave, he hesitated.
"I'll probably come back," he said. "If that's okay."
She met his eyes. "I hope you do."
After he left, the bar felt different — not louder, not busier.
Just… awake.
Maya set another glass on the shelf and realized something small but undeniable had shifted.
Some nights were meant to begin stories.
And this one had.
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