Nocturne
The last glass went into the rack with a soft clink that echoed through the empty bar. Tifa dried her hands on the towel slung over her shoulder and looked around the room — stools neatly tucked, tables wiped down, the faint smell of beer and polish still hanging in the air. A good night. A busy night. The kind that usually left her tired enough to fall asleep without thinking about the silence upstairs.
She heard the clatter of tools from the back room and remembered she wasn't alone.
The handyman had been there for hours, working through the evening rush without anyone paying him much mind. That was how it always went. He slipped in through the back door, fixed what needed fixing, and slipped out again, leaving behind nothing but a clean job and a handwritten invoice she found on the counter every other week. She knew his name — had known it for months now — but he never pushed it, never made her feel like she owed him anything more than the gil she paid him.
Tonight, he'd been patching the water damage by the storeroom door. Old stain, ugly brown ring spreading up the wall. She'd mentioned it to him in passing last week, not really expecting him to show up, but there he was at eight o'clock with a bucket of joint compound and his usual quiet nod.
Tifa hung the towel on the hook and walked toward the back.
He was on his knees when she reached the doorway, smoothing a fresh layer of compound over the patch with practiced strokes. His hands were wide and calloused, streaked with white dust. His work shirt was faded to a soft gray, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and there was a small tear at the collar he probably hadn't noticed. He looked up when her shadow fell across him and straightened slightly.
"Nearly done, Miss Lockhart." His voice was rough, a little gravelly from disuse. "Just need this layer to set, then I'll pack up."
"Take your time." She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "You want a drink before you go? On the house."
He blinked at her, surprised. That happened a lot when she was nice to him — like he wasn't sure he'd heard right. His eyes flicked to the bar behind her, then back. "I don't want to keep you up. It's late."
"I'm already up." She smiled, just a little. "And you're the one who's been working for five hours. Least I can do is pour you something."
He hesitated a moment longer, then nodded and pushed himself to his feet. He wiped his hands on a rag from his pocket and followed her out to the front of the bar, his boots heavy on the wooden floor.
Tifa moved behind the counter and pulled down two glasses. She reached for a bottle of whiskey, something decent she kept for regulars, and poured a generous measure into each. He watched her hands work, the easy confidence in her movements, and when she slid his glass across the counter, he took it carefully, like it was made of glass.
"Thanks." He held it up, a small nod, and took a sip. The whiskey burned going down, warmed his chest. He wasn't used to drinking anything this smooth.
"Seventeen years," she said.
He looked at her, confused.
"The stain," she clarified. "That wall's been patched three times since I took over this place. Always comes back. Something in the pipes, I think. But you're the first one who's actually tried to fix the source instead of just covering it up."
He glanced back toward the storeroom, then at her again. "It'll hold this time. I replaced the section of pipe that was leaking. Should be fine for a good long while."
Tifa leaned her elbows on the counter and studied him. He looked uncomfortable under her gaze, but he didn't look away. There was something honest in his face, the kind of weathered plainness that came from years of hard work and quiet living. She realized, with a small pang of guilt, that she'd never actually asked him anything about himself in all the months he'd been coming around.
"How long have you been doing this kind of work?" she asked.
"Most of my life." He took another sip. "Started young. Worked construction for a while, then moved into repairs and maintenance. It's honest work. Keeps the hands busy."
"You ever want to do something else?"
He considered the question longer than she expected. "Sometimes," he admitted. "But I'm good at this. And it pays the bills." He paused, then added, quieter, "After the plate fell, I was just grateful to have work at all."
Tifa felt the weight of that statement settle between them. She knew what it was like to lose everything, to start over with nothing but what you could carry. She'd rebuilt this bar from the ground up after the destruction, hammered the boards herself, mopped the floors until her hands blistered. She understood the quiet pride of making something solid out of nothing.
She raised her glass. "To honest work, then." He clinked his glass against hers, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "To honest work."
They drank. The bar was quiet around them, the hum of the old refrigerator the only sound. Tifa found herself studying him again — the lines around his eyes, the gray threading through his hair. He wasn't a handsome man, not in any conventional way. But there was something steady about him. Something grounded. He didn't try to impress anyone. He just did the work and went home.
She wondered what his home looked like. Whether anyone was waiting for him there.
"Can I ask you something?" she said.
He set down his glass. "Sure."
"Why do you take these jobs? The small ones, I mean. The ones that don't pay much." She gestured vaguely at the storeroom. "You could probably find work with a bigger outfit, something that pays better. But you keep coming back here to patch walls and fix taps."
He was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was careful, measured. "I like working with my hands. And I like the people in this sector. They're real. They don't pretend to be something they're not." He looked at her then, directly, and there was something in his eyes she hadn't seen before. A quiet intensity. "And you've always been good to me, Miss Lockhart. That counts for something."
Tifa felt a warmth spread through her chest that had nothing to do with the whiskey. She held his gaze for a beat longer than she needed to, and something shifted in the air between them — small, almost imperceptible, but there.
She looked down at her glass and smiled. "You can call me Tifa, you know. You've earned that much, fixing my pipes and all."
He blinked, then laughed — a low, rusty sound, like he didn't do it often. "Tifa," he repeated, testing it. "That's a nice name. Suits you."
She felt her cheeks warm, which was ridiculous. She was twenty-five years old, a business owner, a woman who'd seen more than her share of trouble and heartache. She shouldn't be flustered by a shy compliment from a handyman old enough to be her father.
And yet.
"Well," she said, pushing off the counter, "let me get you another drink before you head out. Seems like the least I can do for a man who fixed my wall properly."
She reached for the bottle, but he put his hand over hers, gentle but firm. The contact was unexpected — the warmth of his skin, the roughness of his calloused palm. She looked up at him, surprised.
"I should get going," he said. His voice was soft, almost apologetic. "It's late, and you've got to open up in a few hours. You need your rest."
She should have pulled her hand back. Should have said goodnight and let him walk out the door like he always did. Instead, she found herself saying, "Stay a little longer. Just one more drink."
He looked at her hand under his. Then back at her face. Something flickered in his expression — uncertainty, maybe, mixed with a cautious hope.
"One more," he said quietly, and let his hand fall away.
Tifa poured. This time, her fingers brushed his when she handed him the glass. She let the contact linger a half-second longer than necessary, watching his face for a reaction.
He noticed. She saw it in the way his throat worked as he swallowed, the way his fingers tightened slightly around the glass. He didn't say anything, but he didn't pull away either.
