My forehead hit the bar with a dull thunk.
Gods. Not again.
"Why do I keep seeing you?" I mumbled into the sticky wood.
A familiar voice, thick as gravy and twice as salty, replied beside me. "I wonder the same thing."
I turned my head, just enough to see him. There he was. Same stubby beard, same mismatched boots, same damn twinkle in his eye like he'd just farted in church and gotten away with it.
"You follow me?" I accused, still half-mashed into the bar.
He snorted. "I was already here when you walked in."
I squinted. "...Were you?"
"Second stool from the left. I waved. You were busy pretending not to see me. You do that a lot."
I groaned and sat up, rubbing my face like I could wipe him out of my reality. "How do you always know what I'm up to?"
He shrugged. "You're not exactly subtle, sweetheart."
"Oh." Fair.
He raised a bushy brow. "Another ale?"
I nodded, defeated.
He flagged the innkeep with a grunt, and two chipped mugs slammed down in front of us. Foam spilled over the rim and soaked my sleeve. Of course it did.
I glanced sideways at him. "We ever figure out if we...?"
He just gave me that same smirk. "Does it matter?"
I stared into my ale.
Gods help me—it really didn't.
I took a long swig. It tasted like regret and river water.
Then, against all better judgment—my better judgment, which, to be fair, is usually drunk and face-down in a gutter—I asked:
"...Was I good?"
His grin stretched slow, like a cat catching a pigeon.
"Worth every penny."
I groaned and dropped my face into my palms. "Gods. That bad?"
He chuckled. "I said every penny, not many pennies. Though I think the first time it was half a smoked sausage and a flask of plum brandy."
I peeked at him through my fingers. "And I took that deal?"
"Oh no. You demanded the sausage upfront. Said you were starving and wanted to see the goods before committing."
I slammed my head gently back onto the bar. "Tell me I at least faked enthusiasm."
"You wept into the ceiling beams and yelled 'I am a golden goddess!' twice."
I squinted. "That... does sound like me."
He lifted his mug. "To golden goddesses and selective amnesia."
I clinked mine against his with a sigh. "And to you, you ridiculous little bastard. May your beard always smell slightly of piss, and your memory remain mercifully spotty."
He grinned wider. "Too late for both."
I drank.
He drank.
The silence settled between us, weirdly comfortable.
"D'you think we'll ever figure out why this keeps happening?" I asked.
He shrugged. "You're chaos in heels. I'm a drunk with a soft spot for bad decisions. Universe keeps pushing us together like two stains in the same laundry cycle."
"Romantic," I muttered.
He winked. "Tragic."
I smiled, despite myself. And maybe—just maybe—I stopped wishing he was imaginary.
Almost.