The bar had that end-of-night smell—the kind that soaks into your clothes and follows you home. Spilled beer. Lemon cleaner. The old fryer in the back that never fully cooled down, just sat there ticking like it had something to say. Most of the lights were already off. Just the amber one over the pool table and the low strip behind the bar that made the whole room look softer than it was. Warmer. Like a lie told nicely.

Chairs were up on tables. Register was counted. I had no reason to still be there.

But I was.

I told myself it was the tips. That I was being responsible,...