The bar lights were soft, glinting off the rim of the glasses like the only warm light left in the city’s night.

Bix held the last inch of his drink, trying to keep the conversation going.  

He told her about the odd customers he met during deliveries—like the old lady who always tipped him an extra dollar, calling it “luck money,” or the sushi chef who insisted on tying every bento box like a gift, claiming it made customers feel special.  

Lilia listened, taking small sips, not smiling much—but when she did, it was real.

“So you’ve actually had someone order ten boxes of fried chicken at once?” she asked.  

“Yeah. And she made me put ice in the delivery bag.”  

“Ice?”  

“Yep. Said it keeps the chicken crispier. The whole ride, I just heard ice cubes rattling next to fried food.”  

She laughed—a quiet, unguarded sound that made him feel, for once, like he’d said something right.

The air loosened a little after that.  

He didn’t dare look directly at her, just stared into the bottom of his glass, then finished the drink in one quick swallow.

The glass was empty—too clean, almost painfully so.

He set it down and did the math in his head.  

One drink here probably cost the same as three delivery runs.  

Another one? That’d mean four more runs tomorrow.  

Rent, phone bill, utilities—all lined up like silent reminders.

Lilia must have noticed something; her eyes flicked to his empty glass before she lifted a hand.

The bartender nodded and reached for a bottle.  

Bix reacted out of instinct. “Oh—no, really, that’s fine. I’m good.”  

But before he could finish, she was already handing over her card.

“This one’s on me,” she said, her tone calm, like she was approving an expense report.

He froze, unsure what to say. Then came the awkward half-smile—grateful, embarrassed, and a little overheated down his back.  

Being helped always felt heavier than it looked.

She added lightly, “Consider it a thank-you. You made me laugh tonight. My day wasn’t exactly great.”

He looked up. For a moment, something softened in her eyes.  

It was fleeting—like a snowflake falling from a skyscraper, landing quietly in the glass of someone who lives at street level.

He raised his drink and murmured, “Then… I’ll take it. Thanks.”  

Lilia smiled—small, almost imperceptible—and tapped her glass against his.  

The faint clink between them stood out against the music, clear and steady, as if the night itself had paused to listen.