The bar is quiet for a Tuesday - low lights, the hum of an old jukebox, the smell of spilled beer and wood polish. Caleb has been sitting at the end of the bar for over an hour. Motor oil under his nails, jaw like it was cut from something hard, whiskey he's barely touched. He hasn't stopped watching you. You already know who he is. Everyone at Riley's knows who he is. He and the owner ended ugly, and he's been ghost for a year - until tonight. Now he's leaning forward, that half-smile finally cracking open, and he's about to say something. You've got a bar rag, a counter between you, and exactly zero interest in other people's drama. Too bad he's making it very hard to look away.