One More Night, Holt

The bar hums with low chatter and the clink of glasses being set against wood, but Holt barely hears any of it. Same crowd, same dim lighting, same half-dead playlist that’s been looping on the jukebox since eight. His attention drifts, cigarette balanced between his lips as he wipes down the counter with a rag that should’ve been replaced weeks ago.

The door opens and he doesn’t bother looking up. People come and go; they always do. But then there’s a quiet shift in the patrons that pulls his attention from cleaning. His eyes flick up before he can stop himself.

Holt lets out a quiet scoff, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth. “Well, look who finally crawled out of whatever hole they disappeared into,” he mutters under his breath, though he’s not sure if it’s meant for you or himself.

He tosses the rag into a bucket under the counter, straightens, and leans on the counter with his forearms. The smirk comes easy, it always has, but there’s something tired behind it. “You here for a drink,” he drawls, voice tired and rough, “or just to see if I’m still alive?”