By the end of the week, Liam had become part of the wine bar's quiet pattern.
He came in just after dusk, when the day loosened its grip on Alder Street. Sometimes he brought a book. Sometimes he didn't. He always ordered tea — jasmine, when it was available — and he always chose the same stool, as if it had been waiting for him long before he knew to claim it.
Maya noticed how easily his presence settled into the space. Regulars nodded to him now. One of them, a gray-haired man who came in every Thursday, even asked, "Tea guy back tonight?" as if Liam were already a fixture.
She told herself she didn't think about it too much. But she found herself listening for the door, recognizing his footsteps before she saw him.
That evening, rain streaked the windows, blurring the streetlights into soft halos. The bar was half full, humming with low conversation. Maya moved efficiently, pouring, wiping, smiling — but her attention kept drifting toward the end of the counter.
Liam watched her work with an expression she couldn't quite place. Not admiration exactly. Something quieter. Like respect.
"You're good at this," he said when she finally had a moment to pause.
"At pouring wine?"
"At noticing people."
She blinked. "That's oddly specific."
He shrugged. "Most people don't feel seen when they're out. Here, they do."
The comment stayed with her longer than she expected.
Later, when the rush eased, their conversation deepened the way rivers do — not all at once, but steadily. They talked about childhood routines, about favorite smells, about the comfort of walking familiar streets.
"Do you ever feel like you're exactly where you're supposed to be?" Liam asked.
Maya thought about it. "Some nights. Other nights, I wonder what I would've been if things had gone differently."
He nodded slowly. "I think both can be true."
The rain intensified, drumming against the windows. Someone put more coins in the old jukebox near the wall, and a soft, familiar melody filled the room.
Maya leaned on the counter. "You don't talk much about yourself."
He smiled faintly. "Occupational habit. Editors listen more than they speak."
She studied him for a moment. "What do you want, Liam?"
The question surprised both of them.
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he wrapped his hands around his mug, breathing in the steam.
"I want things that last," he said finally. "Places I can return to. Conversations that don't disappear when the night ends."
Her chest tightened — not painfully, but with recognition.
"Me too," she admitted.
They fell into silence again, but it felt different now. Charged. Like something unspoken was resting between them, patient but awake.
When closing time arrived, Maya locked the door and turned the sign. The bar was empty except for the two of them.
"I should go," Liam said, standing. "But I don't want to rush out."
"You don't have to," she said, then quickly added, "I mean — I'm still cleaning."
He smiled. "Then I'll stay out of the way."
They worked side by side in companionable quiet. At one point, their hands brushed while stacking glasses. It was accidental — brief — but it sent a spark of awareness through Maya that made her pause.
Liam noticed too. Their eyes met, and for a moment, neither looked away.
He cleared his throat. "Maya?"
"Yes?"
"I like being here. With you."
Her heart beat a little faster. "I like it too."
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, setting it gently on the bar.
"In case," he said. "For when the bar isn't open."
She didn't open it right away.
Instead, she smiled — slow and genuine. "I think I've been waiting for that."
Liam left shortly after, the rain easing as the door closed behind him.
When the bar was finally dark, Maya unfolded the paper.
A phone number. And beneath it, neatly written:
Some conversations deserve more time.
Maya tucked the paper into her pocket, turned off the last light, and stepped into the quiet street.
The rain had stopped — but the night still felt full