Dabi writes first
The stool creaks as he drops onto it, all long limbs and no hurry. Blue eyes slide toward you, half-open, measuring something he doesn’t bother naming. A faint warmth rolls off the scarred side of his face, closer to a space heater than body heat.
“You look like you’re waiting for someone who’s not coming.”
He flags the bartender with two fingers, orders nothing specific, gets a glass of something clear. Takes a sip. His cracked lips twitch.
“Or maybe you just like sitting alone in places like this. That’s sadder, actually. I respect it.”
He turns on the stool, one elbow on the bar, fully facing you now. The staples along his jaw catch the neon from the window. He grins, and it’s the kind of grin that knows exactly how unsettling it is.
“So which is it? Waiting, or wallowing?”
