Novels by Eliora Quinn

Adrian DeLuca didn’t tip. Jamie learned that on a thursday that smelled like rain and burnt citrus from the cleaner they’d overused on the floors. It was the kind of detail that lodged itself under the skin not because of the money, but because of what it suggested. People who didn’t tip were usually careless, entitled, loud about it. Adrian was none of those things. Jamie noticed anyway. He noticed everything. It was late afternoon, the quiet stretch before the bar filled itself with bodies and noise. Sunlight slanted in through the front windows, catching dust motes and the faint smudge on the mirror behind the liquor shelves. Jamie wiped it again, slower than necessary. His arms still felt heavy from the morning shift at the café. His brain felt like it was lagging behind his body, a half-second delay that made him clumsier than usual. Adrian sat in the corner booth. Of course he did. Jamie didn’t look right away. He pretended to inventory bottles, to check receipts, to listen wh

By the fourth night, Jamie knew better than to pretend the corner booth was empty. Even when it was. Bar Della Luna remembered people. Not in the sentimental way; no nostalgia, no warmth but like a ledger. Inked entries. Names written once and never crossed out. The booth carried that same memory now, a presence that lingered even when Adrian wasn’t there, like the shape a body left behind on a bed. Jamie hated that he noticed. Hated that his eyes drifted there between orders, that his shoulders relaxed a fraction when he saw it occupied, that his chest tightened when it wasn’t. He told himself it was routine. Pattern recognition. Nothing more. “Stop staring holes in the furniture,” Mara murmured as she slid past him with a tray. “You’ll scare it.” Jamie startled. “I wasn’t.” She gave him a look. The kind that said she’d been doing this long enough to recognize lies even when they were gentle. “Uh-huh.” The bar was full early tonight. A corporate crowd, pressed shirts, loosened tie

After midnight, Bar Della Luna belonged to a different city. The early crowd, loud money, careless laughter, people who still believed the night was something to spend—thinned out first. They left behind half-empty glasses and the echo of themselves. What came next was quieter. Sharper. People who spoke with their eyes more than their mouths. People who didn’t ask questions they didn’t want answers to. Jamie felt the shift in his shoulders before he noticed it anywhere else. His posture changed without permission. Straighter. More alert. Like his body knew the rules even when his mind pretended it didn’t. He wiped down the counter slowly, dragging the cloth along the wood until it squeaked. The sound grounded him. His feet ached. His lower back throbbed. He was past tired now, into that strange hollow where exhaustion turned everything slightly unreal. The clock behind the bar blinked 12:17. “Almost there,” Mara murmured as she passed him, her voice low. She didn’t say home. None o

Jamie learned the rhythm of exhaustion the way other people learned songs. There was a tempo to it. A drag behind the eyes. A dull ache that settled into his calves by noon and stayed there, loyal, through midnight. He woke to it now, the ache already awake before he was, like it had business to attend to. The ceiling above his bed had a crack shaped like a river. He’d named it once, back when naming things made them feel less temporary. Now he just stared at it, phone buzzing against his palm. 8:14 a.m. He rolled onto his side and reached for the alarm that had failed him. Again. The room smelled faintly of detergent and yesterday’s coffee. Cold. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat there longer than he should have, elbows on knees, breathing through the heaviness. Third job day. He showered fast. Too fast. The water barely warmed before he stepped out, skin prickling as he dragged a towel over himself. His reflection in the mirror looked thinner than last week or ma

Bar Della Luna never smelled the same twice. Some nights it leaned warm—bourbon, citrus peel, expensive perfume clinging to coats that didn’t belong to the season. Other nights it carried something sharper underneath, like metal or rain trapped in stone. Jamie noticed these things because he had to. Because noticing meant staying ahead of the mess. Staying employed. He pushed through the staff door and the noise met him in layers. Low music first, a pulse rather than a melody, then voices. Laughter clipped at the edges, restrained, like everyone here had learned the art of not being too much. Glass chimed against glass, the floor was clean enough to reflect the lights but not clean enough to feel honest. Jamie tied his apron, untied it and retied it tighter. “You’re early,” Mara said, already polishing a row of tumblers with the kind of focus that meant she was tired but pushing through. “Couldn’t sleep,” Jamie said. Mara snorted. “You ever?” He smiled because that was easier than a