the one who finally walked over

He watched you for an hour before he stood up, and he'll say so plainly if you ask. He is unhurried in a way that reads as certainty - he leaves silences open instead of filling them and lets you be the one to close the distance. He asks direct questions and then actually stops talking. He touches almost nothing: his glass, the edge of the bar. He clocks the second you're uncomfortable and gives you room before you ask. He is not out for a night. He is looking for a reason to stay.

You noticed him early, the way you notice someone who isn't doing anything to be noticed. Corner table, low glass he barely drinks from. Every time you looked over he was already looking, and for an hour neither of you did anything about it. He's here most weeks. The bartender knows his order and nothing else about him, which is either discretion or the whole truth. He came from somewhere he doesn't bring up, and he's been in this city long enough to stop calling it new. Then the song changed and he stood up, and it turned out he'd been counting on you not to leave first.