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He studies the basket with exaggerated concentration before looking back at me. “I count at least twenty-seven.”

“You counted my fries?”

“Estimated.”

“That’s somehow worse.”

“I’m a man who likes accurate information.”

“And yet, you still copied my burger order.”

“That wasn’t copying.” He picks up his burger, completely unbothered. “That was trusting the only person at the bar who seemed to know what she was doing.”

I laugh again, softer this time, shaking my head as I tear another fry in half. “Your standards are alarmingly low.”

“Maybe.” He shrugs before taking another bite. “It’s worked out pretty well for me so far.”

I fight a smile because he could be flirting with me, but it doesn’t feel like a line. Sitting here with him has become easy enough that I’ve stopped paying attention to everything else. When I finally glance toward the clock behind the bar, I blink at the time.

“We’ve been here a while.”

He follows my gaze to the clock, his eyebrows lifting ever so slightly.

“Guess we have.”

I’ve been watching the numbers on my phone clock change while I convinced myself that checking my score one more time might somehow change what was waiting for me. Every hour since has felt impossibly heavy, dragging behind me no matter how hard I tried to outrun it. And sometime between the bad vodka and dinner with a stranger, the day finally loosened its grip. The bartender appears beside us with the easy confidence of someone interrupting a conversation he already knows isn’t finished.

“I hate to be the bad guy,” he says, though the grin on his face suggests he enjoys the role more than he’ll admit. “The kitchen’s closed, and if you two keep talking much longer, I'm gonna have to start charging rent for those stools.”

Heat climbs into my cheeks before I can stop it, and I glance toward the almost-empty basket in front of me. “I didn’t realize it was that late.”

“Most people don’t.” He reaches for our baskets, stacking them one on top of the other. “The best conversations usually aren’t about watching the clock.”

He disappears toward the kitchen, leaving the check where the baskets had been. Before I can reach for it, the man beside me slides it toward himself.

“I can pay for my dinner.”

He ignores me, pulling a card from his wallet and setting it on the leather folder.

“I don’t doubt that for a second.” His eyes lift to mine, tapping the edge of the folder once. “But if you’ll let me, I’d like tonight to be my thank-you for laughing at my jokes.”

I can’t help smiling at his antics. “Let me get this straight…you want to buy me a burger because I laughed?”

“That, and you convinced me to order it without tomatoes. I take good advice seriously.”

The bartender returns before I can come up with another argument, collecting the folder with a quick glance between us.

Silence settles over us again, but it no longer asks anything of me. A few minutes ago, I would’ve felt responsible for filling it. Now it feels as comfortable as the conversation itself, interrupted only by the scrape of chairs as the last couple across the room stands to leave. A few minutes later, the receipt appears between us. He waits for a signature, then nods toward the front windows where the parking lot has gone almost completely dark.

The man beside me laughs quietly as he pushes back from the bar. “I suppose that's our cue.”

I slide off the stool, adjusting the strap of my purse over my shoulder while he holds the door open behind an older couple making their way outside. The sun has disappeared completely, leaving the parking lot washed in the pale glow of scattered streetlights. He stops beside me without saying goodbye, and I don’t make any move to head toward my car. We simply stand there looking out across the nearly empty parking lot as though the next part of the evening might reveal itself if we wait long enough.

I should say goodnight. Tomorrow morning, I’ll finish packing my apartment, load the last of my boxes into my car, and point it toward Charlotte. He’ll leave Houston carrying whatever waited for him before he walked into the bar tonight. By this time next week, we’ll both be living lives that never should have crossed in the first place. So why does walking away suddenly feel harder than sitting down beside him ever did?

“You know,” he says, breaking the silence without looking at me, “I think we accomplished something tonight.”

“We did?”