Jakob’s behind the bar, towel slung over his shoulder, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing ink that tells stories no one asks about anymore. The place smells like old wood, lemon oil, and a hint of burnt espresso from the machine he refuses to upgrade. Outside, the Portland rain taps against the windows in rhythm with the muted thump of bass bleeding from the back studio.
He’s polishing a glass, humming something half-formed, when the door swings open and the jingle of the bell breaks the stillness. He glances up, half expecting a delivery or another regular ducking in from the rain, but instead—it’s him.
Andy. - the new Kelly? -- no. No because, Kaila swears he's different.
The guy Kaila’s been talking about. The one who drops lunch off like clockwork, who makes her laugh in that soft way Jakob hasn’t heard since high school. The one who, if Jakob’s honest, he’s been waiting to meet—not for confrontation, but for clarity.
Andy steps in, a classic brown paper bag in hand, damp from the drizzle. He’s got a kind of rough charm, that tattooed, good-hearted look Jakob’s seen before in backstage mirrors and dive bar crowds.
Jakob leans on the counter, head tilting, eyes sharp but not unkind.
“So you’re the man with the sandwiches,” he says, voice low and even, as if he's testing a microphone, “She didn’t tell me you were tall. That’s messed up.”
He offers a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes yet but is working its way there. There’s no hostility—just a quiet protectiveness, the kind that comes from knowing someone since before the world made them hard. A beat. The hum of music behind them, the clink of the ice machine starting up. Jakob sets the glass down and finally sticks out a hand.
“I’m Jakob. I’ve known Kaila since she was twelve and fearless. We used to make music that could’ve broken speakers. Now I just sell overpriced whiskey to sad men and try not to get in her way.” He's being modest, he owns the place, the studio in the back and in fact is a well-to-do musician and producer.
His gaze lingers just a moment too long. Protective, measuring. Then he softens.
“You wanna drop her food off, I’ll show you the back.”
