The next evening, Maya unlocked the wine bar a little earlier than usual.
She told herself it was because she needed time to reorganize the shelves — a delivery had come in late the night before — but the truth hovered quietly in the back of her mind. She wondered if Liam would come back. And if he didn't, whether she'd feel silly for having thought about it at all.
The bar smelled faintly of citrus cleaner and old wood as she moved through her routine: lights on low, chairs down, menu board wiped clean and rewritten in careful chalk lettering. Outside, Alder Street carried on in its usual way — footsteps, distant traffic, laughter spilling from louder places farther down the block.
The door didn't open for the first hour.
A couple came in, ordered a glass each, talked softly in the corner, and left. Maya rinsed glasses, stacked coasters, adjusted the music. She checked the clock more often than she meant to.
When the door finally creaked open again, she didn't look up right away.
"Hi," a familiar voice said.
She lifted her head — and there he was.
Liam stood just inside the doorway, hands in his jacket pockets, wearing the same careful smile as the night before. Something in Maya's chest loosened, subtle but real.
"Welcome back," she said.
"I hope that's not just bartender politeness."
"It's not," she replied, and meant it.
He took the same stool as before. She didn't ask what he wanted this time. Instead, she reached for the kettle.
"Same tea?"
He laughed softly. "You remembered."
"I remember most things," she said. "It's a hazard of the job."
As the water heated, Maya studied him without trying to be obvious. He moved slowly, like someone who paid attention to where he was. When he wrapped his hands around the cup she set down, it was with a kind of gratitude she didn't see often.
"So," she said, leaning against the counter, "what brings you back?"
He considered the question. "Honestly? I liked the quiet. And the conversation."
"That's two reasons."
"And the tea," he added.
She smiled.
They talked again, but differently this time. Less tentative. Liam told her he worked remotely as a copy editor for small publishers, that he liked fixing sentences the way some people liked solving puzzles. Maya told him about her aunt — how she'd been the heart of the bar, how stepping into ownership had felt like inheriting both a dream and a weight.
"Some days I feel like I'm pretending," Maya admitted. "Like someone's going to walk in and say I don't belong here."
Liam shook his head. "This place feels… intentional. That doesn't happen by accident."
The words settled warmly between them.
As the evening went on, a few regulars drifted in. Maya introduced Liam casually, and he nodded politely, never demanding her attention but never withdrawing either. He fit into the rhythm of the bar like he'd always been part of it.
At one point, he glanced at the wine list.
"Do you ever resent it?" he asked. "Working around something you don't always get to enjoy?"
Maya followed his gaze. "I used to think I would. But it turns out wine is just the excuse. People come here for the feeling. I get to watch that."
He nodded slowly. "That makes sense."
There was a pause — comfortable, unhurried.
"Can I ask you something?" Maya said.
"Sure."
"Why tea?"
He smiled, but this time it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I used to drink. A little too much. Tea feels like a gentler choice."
She didn't press. She didn't need to. Instead, she said, "I have a jasmine blend that's not on the menu. Want to try it next time?"
His eyes lit up. "Next time?"
"If you keep coming back," she teased lightly.
"I plan to."
The night wound down slowly. When closing time approached, Maya dimmed the lights and began stacking chairs. Liam stood, lingering just long enough to matter.
"I'm glad I came back," he said.
"So am I."
He hesitated, then added, "Would it be strange if I made this my place?"
She met his gaze. "Only if you stop ordering tea."
He laughed, and the sound followed him out the door.
After locking up, Maya stood alone behind the bar, the silence no longer empty. She thought about the way conversations could change the shape of a room — how presence, not noise, made something feel alive.
The bar on Alder Street had always held stories.
Tonight, it had started another