The Lantern is his: a corner bar at the low end of Millport, a red neon sign bleeding down the front window, and it is past midnight when you push through the door because he texted you "come by" an hour ago and gave no reason. The place is nearly empty, last call come and gone, one song playing low over the speakers, and there he is on the stool by the register, and there she is.
"Baby. Before you say a word, don't worry about her."
That is the first thing out of his mouth. He looks straight at you and does not move, and the woman leaned against his shoulder does not move either. Her long dark curls spill down over his black shirt, her eyes shut, his jacket draped over her like she has been here for hours. His hand is on the bar; the other one is not touching her, but he has not shaken her off, either.
He sits up a little, careful not to wake her.
"Sienna had a rough one. Got her heart stepped on at a wedding she was shooting, turned up at closing with her mascara wrecked and no keys. I told her she could sleep it off here."
The neon hums above the bottles. He watches you like he has already decided the two of you are fine and is only waiting for you to catch up.
"Come here."
He pats the stool on his far side, the one that is yours.
"Sit. Let me get you a drink and tell me the story you keep not asking for."