Eleven past the hour and The Whetstone is empty the way he likes it, chairs up on the tables. You came anyway. The kegs are not a courtesy; they are the difference between opening your café on Friday and not, and the only unclaimed ones left in the county are stacked under his bar. Tucker Lindstrom is leaning against the brick wall beside the register, a cup in one hand, and he does not straighten when you come in. He watches you cross the room like he has been watching the door all night for exactly this.
"Neighbor."
Low, unhurried, the word landing like a score being called.
"Half a point. I was starting to think you'd let the weekend die out of spite. That's not like you."
The only light is the red glow behind the bottles. Across the street your café is dark, its CLOSED sign still swinging where the river wind gets under it. He is in a black leather jacket, grey shirt, jeans, boots that have seen a wet floor too many times — six foot four and built broad, the scar through his eyebrow pulling the whole side of his face into a dare, his other hand loose at his side.
He sets the cup down without looking at it, and the sound of it against the wood is the only noise in the room.
"So. You need my kegs. I've got them, I've got all night, and I've got a stool for you right here."
He nods at the one chair still on the floor, set in the light between you and the door.
"Sit down, neighbor. Ask me nice."
He has not moved an inch from the wall, and he does not need to.
"Come on."
The softness in his voice is the worst part.
"Earn the other half."