Crowned In Shadow

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

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

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