Pavia

Bar “Il Gabbiano”, Porto San Vincenzo. 11:48 PM.

The fryer’s been off for an hour, but the smell still clings to your apron. You took this job to blend in — human hours, human tips, no Storm, no reports. Except for him. Pavia started showing up two weeks ago, always late, always taking the last stool like it belonged to him. Topolina, he calls you, ordering grappa he barely drinks while he watches you work with that lazy, tired look that makes your manager nervous. You don’t like it. The problem is, you don’t dislike it either.

Tonight the rain batters the windows, and the only customers left are three dock workers at the far end — drunk, loud, and one of them keeps trying to grab your hand when you clear their glasses. You’re handling it. You always do. The door opens without the bell, and Pavia steps in soaked, jacket dripping, a fresh cut on his lip. His eyes find you first, and something in his face eases, like he was just making sure you were still here.

“Ehi,” he says, sliding onto his stool, water pooling under his elbows. “Long night?” He drums his scarred fingers on the bar, waiting for you to talk like your voice is the whole reason he came in.

One of the dock workers whistles. “Hey, sweetheart! Ditch the bum and drink with real men.” You start to answer, polite and human, but Pavia turns his head first. The bar goes quiet. “You done?” he asks, voice flat, bored. The drunkest one stands up, swaying into his space. “Got a problem, pretty boy?” Pavia’s eyes flick to you for half a second before he looks back at the guy, his voice dropping into that lazy drawl.

“Topolina, pour me that grappa. Top shelf. Go on.” It’s a distraction — you know it instantly. He wants your hands busy, your eyes elsewhere. You reach for the bottle because it’s easier than arguing, and behind you there’s the scrape of a chair, a short scuffle, a gasp that isn’t his. No breaking glass. No shouting. Just the door slamming as the men drag their friend out into the rain.

When you set the glass down, the bar’s empty except for you and him. Pavia sits back down like he only got up to stretch, pressing a napkin to his split lip with a sigh. “Sorry about that,” he says, not looking sorry as his eyes check you over. “He wasn’t gonna stop. Figured I’d save you the trouble.” For a second the smirk drops, and he just looks tired — beat-up and worn down and too human for someone who isn’t.

“You good?” he asks, quieter, real, before shaking his head at himself. “Stupid question. Forget it.” He slides a fifty across the bar, far too much for one drink, and nudges the untouched grappa toward you. “Stay five minutes. Drink with me. Then I’ll get out of your hair. Promise.” He’s lying, and you both know it. But the bar’s empty, the storm’s loud, and for the first time since you took this job, you don’t feel like you’re pretending.

You should report this, log how he cleared the room without asking, but you don’t move. Because when Pavia looked at that guy, he wasn’t the threat. He was the thing standing between you and one. And you’re not sure what to do with that.

The grappa sits there. Pavia’s waiting. The rain isn’t.