She should have been afraid.

Instead, with the torn envelope safe in her apron and the back door locked behind David, Norah felt the first clean breath of the night enter her lungs.

At the bar, she poured the replacement drink carefully.

Her feet still hurt.

Her bills were still due.

Her apartment would still require courage in the morning, and changing the locks would cost money she hated spending.

But David was outside.

Her rent was in her pocket.

And when her phone buzzed again, she looked at the screen, saw his name, and turned it off.

She carried Roman Gallagher his bourbon without spilling a drop.

This time, when she set it down, the room did not go silent from fear.

It waited, curious.

Norah placed the napkin first, then the glass.

“Here you go, Mr.

Gallagher,” she said.

Roman looked at the drink, then at her.

“Roman,” he corrected.

Norah held his gaze for one steady second.

“Good night, Roman.”

She walked back to the bar before he could turn the moment into anything else, and for once, no one stopped her.