The bar was a dive, the kind of place that didn’t have a name on the outside, just a flickering neon sign that buzzed like a dying insect.
It was midnight, and the place was nearly empty.
A few scattered regulars hunched over their drinks at the far end of the counter, their faces lost in shadow.
Khalil sat at the bar, his shoulders slumped, his work jacket draped over the stool beside him.
His tool belt was still on his hip, the leather worn and cracked from years of use.
He had been here for over an hour, and the empty glasses in front of him were multiplying.
His eyes were bloodshot, his movements slow, his words beginning to slur at the edges.
“And then, and then he says to me,” Khalil muttered, gesturing vaguely with his glass, “he says I’m not supportive.
Me.
Not supportive.
I’ve worked double shifts for that boy.
I’ve broken my back on construction sites since before he could walk.
I put food on the table and clothes on his back and a roof over his head.
And he says I’m not suportive.”
The bartender, a lean femboy with a worn leather jacket and a bored expression, wiped down the counter with a rag.
He didn’t look up.
“Mhm.”
“It’s not about the money, you know?
It was never about the money.
I gave him everything I had.
Everything.
And he throws it back in my face like it’s nothing.
Like I’m nothing.” Khalil took another long drink, the whiskey burning its way down his throat.
“He brings the principal into my house.
The principal.
Of all people.
And then he expects me to just…
accept it.
Like it’s normal.
Like it’s fine.”
“Sounds rough,” the bartender said, still not looking up.
“Rough?
It’s insane.
It’s completely insane.
What is he thinking?
This guy, this Hawthorne, he’s got money and power and a whole family of freaks behind him.
And my son, my Kota, he’s just a kid from the neighborhood.
He’s got nothing.
No connections, no savings, no future except what I’ve been able to scrape together for him.
And this principal, he’s gonna chew him up and spit him out.
That’s what rich people do.
They use you up and throw you away.”
The bartender set the rag down and crossed his arms.
“Right.” (son im crineee)
“And you know what the worst part is?” Khalil leaned forward, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper.
“The worst part is, I can’t even blame the boy.
Not really.
The doctors said he’s got that condition.
That hyper-whatever.
His body makes too much, and if he doesn’t…
you know…
he could die.
So he’s got all these hormones and urges and he can’t control it.
And I thought, okay, I can deal with that.
I can accept that my son has to sleep around just to stay alive.
But why does he have to fall in love?
Why does he have to pick the one person who could ruin him?”
The bartender shrugged.
“Love’s weird.”
“Love’s a trap.
That’s what it is.” Khalil signaled for another drink, and the bartender poured it without comment.
“I thought he’d end up with someone simple.
Someone from the neighborhood.
Maybe that elevator boy, the one with the van and the big mouth.
At least he’s from our world.
At least he knows what it’s like to struggle.
But no.
My son had to aim for the top.
Had to go for the rich kid with the mansion and the fancy car and the personal chef.”
“Maybe he likes him.”
Khalil snorted.
“He thinks he likes him.
But what does an eighteen-year-old know about liking someone?
He’s never even had a real relationship before.
He went from zero to principal in the span of a month.
That’s not love.”
The bartender didn’t respond.
He just kept wiping the same spot on the counter, his expression somewhere between bored and mildly curious.
Khalil took another drink, the glass nearly empty now.
The alcohol was doing its job, loosening his tongue and blurring the edges of his anger into something softer and sadder.
“I just don’t want him to get hurt,” Khalil said quietly, almost to himself.
“He’s my only son.
My only family.
If something happened to him, if this Hawthorne kid broke his heart or ruined his future, I don’t know what I’d do.
I’ve already lost so much.
The whole world changed overnight, and I had to watch it happen.
I had to raise a boy in a world that doesn’t make sense anymore.
And I did my best.
I did my best, and it still wasn’t enough.”
The door to the bar swung open, letting in a gust of cool night air and the sound of distant traffic.
Khalil didn’t look up.
He was too focused on the bottom of his glass, on the amber liquid swirling there like a tiny storm.
“Khalil?
Is that you?”
The voice was familiar, warm and surprised.
Khalil lifted his head slowly, blinking through the haze of alcohol.
It took him a moment to place the face.
Eli.
Riley’s dad.
The guy from the construction supply chain.
The one with the friendly smile and the shared love of overtime shifts and cold beer.
Eli walked over, his own shoulders heavy with exhaustion, his face creased with stress.
He was wearing a rumpled button-up and jeans, his hair slightly disheveled, like he’d been running his hands through it all day.
But when he saw Khalil, his face split into a genuine smile.
“Funny meeting you here,” Eli said, sliding onto the stool beside him.
“I thought this place was only known to me.
It’s my little secret.
The only bar in the city where the drinks are cheap and nobody asks questions.” He signaled to the bartender, who nodded and started pouring his usual.
Khalil sighed, his shoulders sagging even further.
“I mostly drink at work.
Hidden flask in my locker.
But sometimes a bar is a good place to vent as well.
More room to breathe.
More sympathetic ears.”
Eli’s smile softened into something understanding.
He accepted his drink from the bartender, took a small sip, and set the glass down with a quiet clink.
Then he turned on his stool to face Khalil, his full attention focused on the man beside him.
The stress of his own day seemed to fade into the background, replaced by genuine concern.
“Tell me what happened,” Eli said, his voice gentle and open.
“I’m all ears.”