#bartender!reader

You wiped down a spill from a spilled beer, chatting with a regular about the latest baseball scores, when the door swung open with a whoosh of cool night air. And in walked a group that immediately commanded attention, not rowdy college kids or tipsy couples, but a tight-knit crew that moved with the confidence of officials. They were suits, mostly, though a few had shed jackets in deference to the bar's much more casual vibe than theirs.

You pegged them right away as feds, or something close, maybe detectives, politicians even; the way they scanned the room wasn't predatory, but assessing, like they cataloged exits and faces without thinking twice.

And leading the pack, or at least anchoring the center, was him. You'd seen his face on the news once or twice, or at least reckoned that was why he seemed so familiar. It had been some big case. FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit, you vaguely remembered, and this one was the one with the unyielding jaw and eyes that seemed to pierce straight through the cameras.

In person, he was even more magnetic, tall and broad-shouldered, his dark suit hugging his frame like it was tailored for intimidation—which it probably was. His hair was neatly combed, a few strands escaping in that effortlessly disheveled way, and when he glanced toward the bar, those intense brown eyes locked on yours for a split second. Your stomach did a traitorous flip, and you nearly fumbled the cocktail shaker in your hand.

"Earth to Star Command," your coworker muttered as she bumped your hip, sliding past with a tray of empties. She followed your gaze and smirked. "Hot stuff at eleven o'clock. Don't drool on the ice, yeah?"

"Shut up," you hissed, heat flooding your cheeks as you busied yourself with restocking lemons. But it was no use. The team claimed a high-top table near the back, close enough that you could hear snippets of their banter. The blonde woman ordered first, a simple vodka soda with lime. And as you made your way down the line, taking orders, you couldn't help but steal glances at the man practically demanding your attention since he had entered your bar.

And then it was his turn. He leaned back in his chair, watching the exchange between you and his team with that calm authority he exuded, before murmuring, "Scotch, neat. Thanks."

Your pen scratched across the notepad, but your mind was elsewhere, trapped on the way his sleeves strained against his forearms as he gestured, or how his voice carried that low, gravelly timbre that vibrated right through you. Focus! You turned, heading back behind the counter to mix the drinks, but your eyes betrayed you, darting back every few seconds. He was listening to the one with glasses rattle off some statistic about bar fights, a faint quirk at the corner of his mouth.

The first screw-up came with the blonde one's drink: you squeezed lemon instead of lime, handing it over with an apologetic grin. "Oops, my bad! Here, let me fix that."

"No worries," she said kindly, her eyes twinkling like she knew exactly why your brain had short-circuited.

The charming one's whiskey? You had stirred it absentmindedly, earning a raised eyebrow from him when he took a sip. "Sweetheart, this tastes like it's been on vacation in the tropics. You good?"

"Peachy!" you lied, flashing a thumbs-up while your cheeks burned. Inside, you were screaming. Get it together. He's just a guy. A ridiculously hot, brooding, federal agent guy who probably profiled people like you for fun.

But then he shifted, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves just enough to reveal the taut muscles of his forearms, veins tracing lines that screamed you straight in the face.

He was laughing, actually laughing, at something the black haired woman had said, a deep, rumbling sound that cut through the bar's din and landed square in your chest. Your hands froze mid-shake of the fruity monstrosity, pink liquid sloshing over the rim.

(A/N: I'm gonna use the team's names from this point, even though reader doesn't know the names. I just can't be assed to keep finding ways to describe the team without saying their names at this point.)

By the time you delivered his scotch, the table was eyeing you with varying degrees of amusement. Reid was mid-explanation about probability errors in high-stress environments, ironic, much? And the others were stifling grins. You set the glass down in front of him, careful not to meet those eyes, but he looked up anyway, his gaze steady and warm, like he saw right through your flustered facade.

It was too much. The words tumbled out before you could stop them, loud enough to halt the conversation at the table. "I'm sorry," you blurted, gripping the edge of your tray like a lifeline, "but it should honestly be illegal to look that good. Can you stop being hot for, like, one minute? Because I keep messing up drink orders, and it's all your fault."

Dead silence blanketed the table for a heartbeat, the kind that echoes in your bones. Then chaos erupted. Reid nearly choked on his ginger ale, sputtering into a coughing fit while Penelope whooped with delight, clapping her hands. JJ buried her face in her palm, shoulders shaking with laughter, and Emily leaned back with a wicked grin. "Oh, honey, I like you already."

Morgan slapped the table, booming, "Boss, you gotta own that one. The lady's got taste!"

You stood there, mortified, wishing for a trapdoor or spontaneous invisibility. Your face was on fire, and you braced for the shutdown, the polite deflection from a man like Hotch, who probably dealt with overzealous admirers on the daily.

Instead, his lips curved, just the faintest hint of a smirk, but it lit up his whole face, softening those sharp edges. His eyes held yours, with a spark of something playful lurking beneath. "I'll... try to tone it down," he said, his voice low and even, laced with dry humor that sent a shiver down your spine. He lifted his glass in a subtle toast, the smirk deepening just a fraction. "Thanks for the drink."

The table dissolved into more laughter, the tension shattering like ice in a shaker. You mumbled something incoherent, an apology wrapped in a laugh, and bolted back to the bar, heart pounding as if you'd just run a marathon. Your colleague was waiting, eyes wide. "Did you just tell a freaking FBI agent he's too hot for you to function? Iconic!"

"Kill me now," you groaned, burying your face in your hands. But even as you replayed the humiliation, a thrill buzzed under your skin. He'd smiled. At you.

The night dragged on in a haze of redemption orders, fixed drinks, extra garnishes to smooth over the mishaps, and stolen glances. The team settled into easy conversation and stories of cases veiled in vagueness. Hotch was quieter, but when he spoke, everyone listened. And every so often, you'd catch him watching you, not staring, just a flick of his gaze over the rim of his glass, warm and assessing, like he was piecing together your profile: the bartender with the quick wit and quicker blush.

As the clock ticked toward closing, the crowd thinned to stragglers nursing last calls. The team began to wrap up, jackets shrugged on, hugs exchanged. Morgan clapped Hotch on the shoulder with a teasing, "Don't forget what she said, Hotch, dial back the smolder." Emily shot you a conspiratorial wink as she passed the bar, whispering, "Figure out a smoother recovery next time. Or don't, he looked like he didn't mind."

You waved them off with a laugh, relief washing over you as the door swung shut behind the group. Finally, peace.

Except... footsteps approached the bar again. You looked up, and there he was, lingering with his empty tumbler in hand, the others gone into the night.

He slid the glass across the counter. Up close, without the team's buffer, he was even more imposing, and intoxicating. The faint scent of his cologne, woodsy and clean, mingled with the bar's lingering haze of citrus and liquor.

"Sorry about earlier," you said quickly, before he could open his mouth. "That was wildly unprofessional. Blame the late hour... or the full moon. Whatever."

His expression didn't shift to judgment; if anything, his eyes softened, crinkles forming at the corners like he was holding back a real smile. "No apology necessary. Honesty is refreshing." He paused, leaning one elbow on the counter, closing the distance just enough to make the air feel electric. "In my line of work, people don't often say what's on their mind. Not like that."

You swallowed, fingers twisting a bar towel before swinging it over your shoulder. "Well, it wasn't exactly poetic. More like... word vomit."

A low chuckle escaped him. "Poetic or not, it worked." He straightened slightly, but his gaze stayed locked on yours. "For the record, you turned a rough week into something memorable. Thank you."

Your breath caught. "I... you're welcome? I mean, glad I could help. Even if it was by embarrassing myself."

That smirk returned, subtle devastation in the curve of his mouth. "You didn't embarrass yourself. Far from it." He reached into his pocket, pulling out his wallet, but instead of just settling the tab, he slid a folded bill under the glass, a tip that was more than generous. Tucked beneath it was a business card, crisp and official, with his name and number scrawled in neat ink on the back.

The implication hung there, unspoken but electric. Call me. Or don't. But you could.

"Goodnight," he said softly, reading your name from your badge without a glance. His voice wrapped around it like velvet.

"Night, agent," you managed, the title feeling bold on your tongue.

He nodded, his smirk lingering as he turned toward the door. The bell jingled softly behind him, leaving you staring at the card, heart hammering a rhythm that echoed long after the bar emptied.

Your colleague locked up with a grin an hour later, but you were already lost in replays, the laugh, the look, the promise of more. Haunting your dreams? Understatement of the year.

This was the start of something that could unravel you entirely. And damn if you weren't ready for it.

He scored a decent apartment, not too nice, but a lot nicer compared to the others he’d seen (because the Harrington name still sticks with some of the big business guys outside of Hawkins.)

He scored a job as a bouncer after he found a weird mix of a bar and nightclub in the downtown area of the city.

A popular spot near a hotel, it was a plain sports bar during the day. Leather booths and wood tables against the wall, neon signs shaped like the beer logos hung up, stools at the polished wood counter with a few box TVs sitting in the corners playing reruns or the current sport seasons game.

In the later hours they’d open up the stretch of empty floor to become the dance floor, lights would reflect off the cheap disco ball that was strung up from the ceiling, and every once in a while, they’d hire an actually good DJ. Whoever built the place clearly had the idea for it to be a nightclub only, but the current owner wanted both a flashy techno nightclub and sports bar at the same time.

That’s why everyone loved it so much, painful, but you could get the best of both worlds if you wanted. It was cheap, next to a hotel, and a tourist spot in one of the biggest cities in the country. Plus, if you paid extra bucks, you could get a private show from the go-go dancers.

For Steve, decent pay, decent job. Nights could be boring, but there would always be kids with fake IDs who liked to argue, drunk girls batting their eyelashes in attempts to get in, rich business men with wallets filled with hundred dollar bills, office workers looking for somewhere to destress, pissed off or ecstatic sports fans, all kinds of patrons would show up.

At least the regulars at the bar were nice. Or quiet.

It wasn’t exciting to talk about, it wasn’t the dream, but it was a job. It was easy. 

And after going through a four year streak of hell that blended into his teenage years and early adulthood, Steve needed easy.

He was perfectly fine with the job of checking IDs and dealing with intoxicated people. It was dull work, but it wasn’t all bad.

Especially once you showed up not long after he was hired.

Thursday night is always boring. There’s only a few patrons sitting at the bar, most people are in bed or on their way to it, the old box TV on the counter is playing an episode of The X-Files (Marty always asks you to switch it to Fox Network or he’ll go on a rant about “hiding from the truth”.) and you pretend to not be interested in it. 

This quiet and stale atmosphere compared to the chaos of Friday night lights always makes it feel like the clock hands are stuck moving through syrup. Basically, Thursday nights are slow.

You wash, wipe, and put away glasses while mindlessly staring at the TV, you’ve seen this episode before, Scully and Mulder are stuck in a research station in Alaska with scientists and everyone's losing their minds, you know what happens. They’ve replayed this episode too many times.

Knuckles rap against the counter in a familiar pattern.

Knock. Knock. Beat. Knock.

You can’t help the smile that creeps up on your face, you turn around and you’re met with who it always is.

“You being good?” Steve teases, his crossed arms sitting on the counter. His arms flex against the short sleeve of his black shirt, his biceps all on display.

“Depends. Is your shift over or do I have to tell you no drinking on the job again?” You shoot with a smirk, your feet are already slowly turning in the direction of the mini fridges. 

“Uh-uh. I’m off the clock.” He uncrosses his arms and holds out his hands, drumming them on the table.

You've figured out what Steve’s choice of drink would be after his shifts by his body language and tone of voice. He’s hard to read, kind of a closed book, but at least you’ve cracked the code in what beer he likes.

Tonight he’s tired, not exhausted, just a bit tired. It’s been a boring night, he’s not looking for anything to wake him up.

You turn and grab a bottle of Budweiser and set it down in front of him. Instead of using the opener mounted to the bar counter, you let him do the honors and hand him a spare bottle opener.

“Oh, thank you.” He sighs out like he just had a heavy bag removed off his back. “Any guys try slipping you their numbers tonight?” 

“Nope.” You pop the p as you copy his original sitting position and lean your crossed arms against the counter. “Any girls try to flirt their way into here tonight?

“Nope.” He copies your cadence, “Uneventful tonight. What?” Steve notices how

“Nothing, I just heard a woman talking about the really sexy brunette bouncer she tried to talk to.” You shrugged, taking a coaster and spinning it under your finger.

“Well, there’s a lot of women who come here, I don’t pay attention.”

Steve is a statue when he’s at the door, you’ve seen it. He doesn’t talk, doesn’t really move around, he’ll rock back and forth on his feet if he’s really bored. He’s an animatronic, he takes your ID, checks it, gives it back, and lets you in. 

“You don’t pay attention to the pretty women that are right in front of your face?” You pout at him.

“The only pretty woman I pay attention to is you.” Steve tilts his head to the side, that stupid cocky smile on his face means he’s telling himself still got it, Harrington.

You roll your eyes and fake a gag, you gotta crush his spirit from time to time. Keep him humble.

“Real smooth mister.” You push yourself up and the bar counter, “Buy me a drink first.”

“When does your shift end?” He shoots back and you have to keep yourself from rolling your eyes again.

“Midnight.” You grimace and throw your head back. Three hours. Three more fucking hours. You don’t know how many more times you can handle hearing The X Files theme song tonight.

“Have you had your smoke break yet?” Steve’s question pulls you out of your tiny moment of misery, your head snaps back up.

Marty is too focused on Scully and Mulder pointing guns at each other on the TV, but you tell him his next drink will be on the house if he keeps watch of the bar and doesn’t touch anything.

The brick wall of the bar is cool on your skin, the old light on the side of the building is yellowed and occasionally flickering, little bugs are circling it.

Steve’s already lighting your cigarette before you can even reach for the lighter in your pocket. His cig is laying unlit in the corner of his mouth, he always lights yours first for you.

“You think I’ll get in trouble if I close an hour early?”

“No, it’s not like Jerry’s here to see it happen.” Steve struggles with the lighter for a minute, he can’t seem to get it to spark fully with the wind blowing it out. “Everything alright?” He’s trying to shift the focus to you, he’s getting more and more embarrassed with the lighter not fucking working.

“Mm. Just bored, no one’s here.” You sigh, blowing out smoke while you let your head fall back against the wall. Steve is finally able to get an actual flame out.

“I’m here.” He juts out his bottom lip and shrugs before he matches your position. You just smile and close your eyes for a minute.

You’re tired, he’s tired. There’s not much to talk about. But the quiet is nice, the wind on your face is nice, Steve’s presence is nice.

You can hear Steve’s feet shift in the gravel but you don’t think much of it, you let yourself take a moment before opening your eyes again.

When you do, Steve’s turned around facing the wall, his cigarette has been replaced with a pen cap, he’s got a napkin pressed against it and a pen- the pen from your apron, must’ve slipped it out while you weren’t looking, he’s writing something down.

“Maybe, I can make up for all the missed numbers tonight.” He hands you the napkin, there’s a small tear in it from the ragged wall. 

“You’re gonna play the stranger who slips me his number tonight?”

“Stranger?”

“Co-worker.” You correct.

“Well, ow. I thought we were friends.” He puts the cap back on your pen, and slips in back into the front pocket of your apron. Your stomach sucks in a tiny bit at the feeling of his hand against it through the fabric.

“I don’t know anything about you!” You laugh.

“Yes you do, I talk to you all the time!” 

“You talk to me on my smoke breaks or when you stop by after your shift.” 

“Well, my name is Steve, I just turned 27, I work as a bouncer, and my favorite flavor of ice cream is butterscotch.” That last part was a lie, Steve couldn’t stomach that flavor anymore, not after that summer. God, when was the last time he ate ice cream? “Nice to meet you, what’s your name?” He gave you a shit eating grin and stuck his hand out.

You couldn’t help smiling again, you ignored his hand.

“I think you’re drunk, you should go home.” You stomp out your cigarette and make your way towards the back door, the napkin with his number is still in your hand.

You hear Steve scoff and when you face towards him again his hands are on his hips.

“Go home, Steven.” You groan as you open the door.

“Look! We’re on a full first name basis already!”

You turn around and stare at him, you lean your body slack against the doorframe, your hand is lazily holding onto the knob.

“Go home.” You give him a tired smile. You’re enjoying his company, you feel bad telling him to go. There’s something in you that’s trying to tug back at you telling him to go.

“Fine.” He says defeated, the same tired smile on his face, but he won’t let up “But give me a call when you get home, let me know you’re safe, ‘kay?” He’s slowly beginning to walk backwards, his car is already parked in the back lot. 

“Yeah I will, I will. ‘Kay?” You tease as you mock his voice, “Goodnight Steve.”

You spin around after he says it back and close the door behind you, you stare at the number on the napkin. You make a mental note to yourself and fold it before shoving it in your back pocket where your wallet is.

You’ll close up early tonight.

stranger. you swear you'd seen him somewhere before. he looked so familiar and yet all recognition left as soon as he acknowledged you.

he looked up from his whiskey, eyeing you warily. but after a moment, the realization that you were just being nice hitting him, he let out a hefty sigh. it wasn't without reluctance that he spoke.

"nothing much," he simply said. 

"bullshit," you retorted, unable to hide your smile as you dried off a clean glass and sat it where it belonged. "you've got sad eyes, mister. i'd be a fool not to catch them."

oh, hell, diving right in, huh?

"ah, don't do that," he said, shaking his head. a hand brushed against his forehead, before said hand waved off your words. "don't call me mister."

"yeah? then what should i call you?" you asked with palpable care in your words, tossing down your bar towel as you looked right at him. 

"robby works."

"alright then, robby," you said, nodding in understanding. you looked to his nearly empty glass. "need a refill?"

"if you wouldn't mind."

"not at all. it's my job."

you picked up his favorite whiskey (he'd told you just a moment before he'd ordered the first time), filling his glass halfway. he'd ordered off the rocks, which fair if you really wanted the buzz, but you kept an eye on him. he'd never been to your bar before (or at least, not when you've been on duty; maybe ilya or tomás had served him before—then again, you were here most often than not, being that this was your main source of income). 

"you come here often?" you asked, curiously getting the better of you. usually once the bar-goers had a drink or two, they were all words and spewing them at that.

he raised a brow. "no." his glass tilted in hand, swirling the liquid around, before he took a sip of it. "no, i've not been here before."

ah. so your assumption was right. it was nice, sometimes, knowing things before anyone said it. it wasn't really a parlor trick, more of a, i've worked here for so long it just happened kind of trick.

"what brings you out here tonight?"

god, if you would've had more customers, you would've paid attention to them. but it was nearly 9 pm on a tuesday, and many of your regulars were nowhere to be seen.

"you're awfully nosy, huh?" he hummed, dark brown eyes finding yours over the rim of his glass. 

those eyes went right through you. 

you gave a soft smile. "sure," you said, shrugging. "i'll leave you be. i'm just right here if you need someone to talk to, though. here all night, really.”

he was silent in return, but the small smile he gave showed you hadn’t been too nosy.

you left him to his own devices, serving a few randoms and a regular, tom, who had come in straggling the hour. said regular was all blubber and disregard, and you cut him off after one drink, calling a cab just for him (he’d enough pocket change to get home, thank god). tom knew not to mess around—he knew you’d put him in his place in an instant, if need be. he must've been out drinking again, kicked from one bar to the next. poor guy. it was sad, if you really wanted to divulge into the ineptitude of the man.

tom did, however, before the cab came along, look to the newcomer and eye him warily.

tom leaned forward on the countertop, getting as close to you as he possibly could before he whispered in a not-so-quiet manner: “he’s a doctor!”

your eyes flicker to the man only to find his eyes already on you. a small smile found your face but you looked to tom, shaking your head.

“keep it to yourself, tom. no one needs to know his business.”

“but—“ tom insisted, quick to stop at the crass glare you give him. “fine.” the older man slouched in his seat, burying his face in his hands as he waited for his cab.

“drink this while you’re waiting,” you said, sitting a glass of water in front of him.

his nose scrunched at the sight of it. “what is it?”

“another drink. just one for the road.”

“is it free?”

“of course, tom. your last drink is always free.”

he downed the drink in one go, tastebuds failing to register the neutral drink finding its way down his gullet.

the only other employee, a busboy/waiter/host (he’d received so many titles you started calling him a jack of all trades), came to the bar.

“cab’s here,” he said, hitting the countertop with two quick pats.

“thanks, nate.”

“no problem. need help getting out, tom?”

tom waved him off and climbed down from his seat, throwing down a few bills to pay for the only real drink he’d been given. he waved to you, glared at the doctor, and left for his cab waiting just behind the confines of the darkened joint.

nate mumbled a quick, “going on break,” to which you, of course, accepted gracefully. you could handle a crowd, if it were to happen. however, as of now, it seemed rather unlikely.

you took tom’s money and cleaned up his mess. you made your way toward your whiskey drinker, putting the cash away in the register.

“want any more, dr. robby?”

“not unless it’s free.”

an instant smile appeared. “the only thing free is water.”

“water?”

“yeah,” you let out a laugh. “tom’s a drunk, so it’s pretty easy to convince him to drink water by the time he gets here. he’d do anything for free.”

his lips purse together and he finished off his whiskey. the glass hit the countertop with a click, a bit louder than he expected.

“shit. sorry,” he said.

“you’re alright,” you said. “sure you’re done?”

“i think i could go for a water.”

you took his glass, grinning all the while. so, dr. robby traded out his whiskey glass for a tall glass of water.

the crowd was still nonexistent. seemed like it, anyway. you could risk a conversation with him. 

"so what do you do for work? was tom right?" you asked, arms crossed over your chest, hip pressed against the counter as you leaned back, admiring him. you couldn't help it. he was a handsome man, years of hard work evident in the lines on his face. dark brown eyes that warmed you from the inside out, piecing together a feeling you'd long since left behind. 

he raised a curious brow. "really?"

"yeah, really," you returned. "tom seemed to know who you were, so humor me, dr. robby. medical doctor or doctor of philosophy?"

"medical doctor."

you perked up a bit at that. medical doctor. he may know... no. no, he wouldn't, would he?

"where at? you nearby?"

"not too far, no," he said, shaking his head. "the pitt."

your breath caught in your throat, palms growing clammy as you kept a steady gaze on the man. oh, shit. oh shit. oh shit oh shit oh—

"you're at the trauma center?" your voice was steady and cool. you thanked whatever was out there listening that you could still do that—sound like you weren't about to lose your godforsaken mind. 

he nodded, sipping at his water. "yeah."

the meat of your cheek caught between your teeth. he would know him. surer than hell. fucking piers. why did it even matter? 

"you know about it, then?" he asked, sitting his glass down. his arms moved to rest against the counter, fingers laced together as he leaned forward, eyeing you curiously. "the pitt, that is."

"yeah. i know of it. know it's a hell of a time, too."

"oh?"

"yeah, you wouldn't believe how many complainers run through here acting like they've been persecuted by god himself. not your fault you've got like, what, minimal funding at best?"

brown eyes stayed glued to yours. he let out a soft hum, tilting his head as he did so. he was trying to figure you out. did he know you? for whatever reason, you weren't exactly striking him as familiar. hell, this was the first time he'd ever come to this bar (he just needed something different—anything different than the same things over and over again). 

he'd be back again. he liked the sound of your voice. 

robby pulled out his wallet, pulling out a twenty dollar bill. he handed it to you, to which you took with furrowed brows. 

"you done?"

"yeah, i should probably head home. no rest for the wicked."

"tell me about it," you said, snorting softly. "let me get you some change."

"no, it's okay," he said, standing up and finally coming to his full height. he shot you a soft smile. "keep it. thanks for listening to me."

"again, it's my job, but it's not like i had much to listen to," you retorted, putting aside the change that would've been left for his tab. you'd either keep it for him if he came in again, or you'd use it for another cab (or two) for a few stragglers who came in spouting they were about to drive home drunk. 

he shrugged. "could say that, but i'm sure i'll be back."

your eyes flickered up to his. you tried to hide your soft smile. "i'll be counting the hours, dr. robby."

"please. just robby."

"alright then, just robby. have a good night."

a tense smile, a nod of the head, and then dr. robby was gone. 

immediately after the door was shut, you let out a loud groan, burying your face in your hands. of fucking course. 

your job afforded you to meet so, so many people. so many people that seemed to interesting, thousands of stories walked through your doors on a week-to-week basis. every now and then, you found your curiosity getting the better of you. that's where piers came in, a few years ago. and of course, of fucking course, piers worked in the same damned hospital as dr. robby. that's why you recognized him. had he recognized you in any way? 

piers was just a phlebotomist, most likely floating to whatever floor they needed him, but damn, there was no questioning it. 

last you'd been around the hospital was nearly a year ago, after piers deciding to go and fuck everything up by cheating and getting the woman pregnant—girl, really, only just having turned twenty-one. piers could eat your shoe and then some. 

asshole.

a voice piped up from across the bar. "you good?" nate. he was a good kid. er, was he even a kid? damn, you didn't even know. he looked like he was younger, but then again, you may not be the best judge of age given that some people said they were far younger than your initial assumption.

you took in a deep breath and looked up, smiling in his direction. "yeah. i'm good."

he raised a brow. "you're a shit liar."

you nodded, lips pursed. "yeah. thanks for that one."

"no problem."

well, what's done is done. if dr. robby showed back up, then maybe you'd humor yourself. but until then, these glasses weren't about to wash themselves. you got to work, your focus quickly taking precedence, the noise of your mind turning to a mumble instead of a full on shouting match.