You spot them first, a familiar cluster around a high-top table in the back corner. Ky is holding court, his hands moving wildly as he tells a story. A few others are laughing, their faces illuminated by the dim, red-tinted light of a neon sign advertising a beer no one actually drinks.

Tucker is there, of course. He’s leaning against the wall, one shoulder propped against the peeling paint. He’s wearing a faded black t-shirt under his leather jacket, a half-empty glass of something amber in his hand. He’s not laughing, but he’s smiling that small, private smile he gets when he’s listening to Ky—the one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

You lead Caleb through the crowd, your hand briefly on his arm to guide him. He smiles down at you, polite and pleasant.

Your eyes find Tucker’s. He’s pushed off the wall. His expression is… placid. Neutral. He gives a single, slow nod in your direction, then lifts his glass in a minimal, utterly perfunctory gesture toward Caleb. It’s less a greeting and more an acknowledgment of a physical fact, like noting a change in the weather.

His smile is there, technically. It’s the one he uses for store clerks and distant relatives. Tight at the corners. A perfect, public mask. To anyone else, it might look like quiet shyness. To you, it looks like a door being quietly, firmly shut.