Glass

The water was cold. Not just cool, but sharp. The kind of cold that sliced through her skin like glass, shocking her system awake in jagged, nerve-burning spikes. It sank deep into her bones, a cruel, icy reminder that her body was running on empty.

She cupped her hands under the faucet one last time, her fingers aching from the sting, her knuckles turning white. The icy water spilled between her fingers before she splashed it against her face. It struck like a slap, sharp and ruthless, dragging her halfway back to reality. Droplets clung to her lashes, traced cold, meandering paths down her cheeks, and finally dripped from her chin into the sink, one by one.

The fluorescent light overhead buzzed faintly, a static hum that scraped at the edges of her nerves. Every few seconds, it flickered . . . a small, erratic stutter . . . just enough to make the corners of the restroom seem unstable, shifting in and out of existence.

She exhaled, breath trembling.

Come on, Ellen. You can do this. One more shift. Then . . . then you can sleep.

She reached for the rough paper towels with tired movements. She pressed them against her face, the rough texture scraping across her skin. Her fingers lingered a second too long, gripping the paper like she could wring energy out of it.

Once dry, she balled up the towels, tossed them into the bin, and forced herself through the door.

The trick was to move quickly.

Move lightly, like you’re not even there.

Walk fast, don’t linger, and people wouldn’t question how many times you’d slipped away or how long you’d been gone. If you walked fast, it meant you were in a hurry . . . too busy, too exhausted, too occupied for anyone to stop you.

There goes Ellen, in a rush again.

No one would ask why she kept escaping to the restroom like it was a lifeline.

As she stepped back into the bar, the lingering smell of grilled food and fryer oil clung to the air. The kitchen staff had already changed shifts, their voices long gone from behind the swinging doors that led to the back. A few hours ago, the place had smelled freshly charred and seasoned, a dinner rush in full swing, but now the scent had settled into the stale, greasy fog of a long service winding down.

She hadn’t seen the chefs come or go. She never did. They had their own world tucked away behind the swinging doors.

Her world was out here.

On the floor.

The job was simple enough . . . take drink orders, serve food, keep the customers happy. Usually, there were two people working the floor at any one time.

Tonight, it had been Tracy and Seth. Until Ellen showed up unannounced.

She wasn’t even on the schedule.

Didn’t matter.

Jack wouldn’t turn her away. He never did.

Not that Tracy would see it that way.

Ellen moved toward the floor, letting the rhythm of the bar pull her in.

The bar was alive now, the quiet lull of the day shift replaced by an evening pulse.

Wall lanterns flickered against exposed brick, casting uneven shadows that breathed and stretched with the movement of bodies. Gimmicky beer-bottle light fixtures, swayed slightly on their ropes from passing shoulders, their dim glow spilling onto the floor in distorted shapes. The LED strips lining the walls bled neon pink and purple, smudging the night with unnatural bruises.

The fruit machines in the corner whispered their promises, flashing in hypnotic bursts. Men hunched over them, fingers twitching as they fed in coin after coin, eyes dull with that familiar, vacant hope.

The evening shift had settled into its own steady chaos. Low conversations hummed beneath the intermittent clash of glass, the steady churn of the beer taps, and the occasional burst of laughter from a table too deep into their drinks.

She needed to look busy.

That was the trick.

People didn’t question you if you looked busy.

She grabbed a tray from the bar and started weaving between tables, her hands moving on autopilot. Empty glasses, stray coasters, napkins folded into forgotten origami shapes, all swept up into a growing stack in her arms.

The air smelled like beer, grease, and warm bodies packed too close together. A thick, lived-in kind of scent that clung to her skin and hair no matter how many times she washed it out.

Ellen looked away. Her tray was full. She turned toward the bar, shifting her grip . . . and collided straight into Tracy.

The stack of glasses wobbled dangerously. Ellen scrambled to balance them, fingers slipping against cold condensation . . . Then came the crash.

Glasses hit the floor, shattering, sharp and loud against the hard wood.

A few heads turned.

Ellen’s stomach plummeted.

“Shit…”

She dropped to her knees immediately, gathering the larger shards, her face burning.

“Wow,” Tracy said, mock-surprised. “That’s, what? Four? Five? Good thing we’re not paying you for the day shift. Otherwise, you’d be costing us money.”

Ellen swallowed hard. “Sorry. Slipped.”

“Oh, honey.” Tracy crouched slightly, resting her forearms on her knees. Close enough to look concerned. Far enough to look amused. “Are you okay? You look…” She paused, eyes raking over Ellen’s face like she was searching for the right word.

Then, sweetly, too sweetly:

“…awful.”

Ellen forced a tight smile, sweeping the last few fragments into her palm.

Tracy leaned in, voice hushed like a conspirator. “I’m actually kind of worried about you.”

A pause. Then, like an afterthought . . . 

“Do you smell that?” Tracy wrinkled her nose, glancing around theatrically.

“Something’s… off.” She looked back at Ellen, head tilting. A small, sharp smile.

Ellen said nothing. Her throat felt tight.

Not worth it.

Not worth it.

She stood up, glass piled carefully on her tray which she cradled carefully in both hands.

Tracy patted her arm like she was so brave for not snapping back. Then she straightened, completely unbothered, and pivoted toward the stage, already locking eyes with one of the band members.

Seamless. Like Ellen had never been there at all. She swanned off, hips leading the way, her heels clicking sharp and deliberate against the floor.

Ellen let out a slow breath.

Right.

Back to work.

Ellen pushed forward, back to the bar, her arms tight around the tray of broken glass.

She could still feel the heat of Tracy’s presence at her back, could still hear the sharp click of her heels fading towards the stage.

Let it go.

She dumped the glass shards into the bin beneath the counter, shaking the last slivers from the tray. Her hands trembled slightly. From exhaustion. From Tracy.

Just keep moving.

The small stage was stirring to life. The band was setting up, testing cables and checking levels. The speakers crackled, humming low like an electric storm waiting to break.

Tracy had latched onto them.

Four men. Thin, early twenties, all eerily similar . . . like they’d been made from the same mold. Ellen wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d crawled out of some small town where everyone’s family tree twisted into a circle. Something about them made her stomach turn.

Tracy, of course, was eating it up.

She thrived on attention like a weed in cracked pavement, creeping in where it wasn’t wanted, taking up space that belonged to something better. She latched on, fed off it, growing bolder the more it surrounded her.

Her bleached hair caught the neon glow as she tossed it over one shoulder, her laugh loud, exaggerated, just a little too polished to be real.

The band murmured something to her, their voices low, words lost in the noise. But Ellen didn’t need to hear them.

She knew the tone. The shared glance. The way Tracy’s lips curled into a knowing smirk before she fired back something just as crude.

She loved this.

She lived for this.

Ellen dug a hand into her pocket, fingers closing around the small handful of change.

She pulled it out, letting the coins pool in her palm.

Not even enough for a meal. Tracy had been right about one thing . . . the day shift was dead.

She had barely scraped together anything in tips. Just a few stray coins, mostly from old veterans and widows who nursed a single drink for hours.

She knew why, of course. It wasn’t just about stretching a drink. It was about stretching warmth. Making a beer last long enough to delay the cold waiting at home. She hated taking money from them . . . but, what was the alternative?

I need this.

A voice cut through her thoughts. “Ellen, are you okay?”

She flinched.

She hadn’t even heard him approach.

Seth stood a few feet away, behind the bar, motionless.

His presence was almost weightless . . . no sound, no shift in air, just there. Like he’d materialised out of thin air.

She shoved the coins back into her pocket, fingers still rolling them absent-mindedly.

“I will be finishing my shift soon,” he said, voice smooth, precise. Carefully measured.

“I wondered if you had taken any time to consider renting the other room at my apartment?”

Then, just like that, he turned his back to her.

And started making coffee.

She blinked.

Who the hell wanted coffee at this hour? And who asked a question like that and immediately turned away?

Seth was strange. Not in an obvious way, not in a creepy way, just . . . different. Too polite. Too still. Like a man trying on humanity for the first time, testing the fit.

And yet, there was something else, too.

A quiet confidence. A knowing. Like he had already seen the end of the trick and was waiting patiently for the rest of the world to catch up.

She had been thinking about his offer. A lot. And sure, there was always the possibility he was a serial killer, but honestly? She was too exhausted to care. Right now, the sheer weight of everything . . . the lack of sleep, the mental fog, the ache in her bones made even the worst-case scenario seem like a risk worth taking.

If he kills me in my sleep, at least I’ll finally get some rest.

She shifted, adjusting the weight of the change in her pocket.

“Yes, I was going to ask you about that,” she started. Ellen shifted her weight, glancing at the room again before lowering her voice. “I haven’t got much money right now,” she admitted, fingers tightening slightly around the coins in her pocket. “But I can pay at the end of the month. I just… ” She hesitated, exhaling. “I just finished a course. Spent a fortune on it. Should’ve saved more, but I needed to get it done.”

Seth tilted his head slightly. “What kind of course?”

She rubbed the back of her neck, feeling oddly self-conscious about it. “Patient Care Technician. You know, like a CNA, but with a bit more hands-on training. Took a few months to get through it, and between the tuition, textbooks, and trying to keep up with rent, I’ve been stretched pretty thin.”

His expression didn’t shift much. Seth had this way of listening without reacting, like he was absorbing every detail before deciding how to feel about it. “That’s quite a change from bartending,” he said finally.

Ellen let out a short breath, almost a laugh. “Yeah, well… I can’t do this forever. The late nights, the drunks, the noise… I think I’ve hit my limit.” She hesitated, glancing at him, then shrugged. “I wanted something where I could actually help people. Something that mattered.”

Seth nodded, as if turning the thought over. “You planning to work in a hospital?”

“Hopefully. Or a clinic, maybe. Whatever I can get with my certification. It’s not nursing school, but it’s a start.”

She didn’t know why she was telling him all this . . . maybe because Seth had that rare quality of listening without judgment, or maybe because she was exhausted and didn’t have the energy to pretend things were fine. Either way, it was done.

Ellen straightened her shoulders and met his gaze again. “The course is over now, though. So once payday hits, I’ll have more than enough for rent.”

Seth didn’t turn around. He kept his attention on the coffee machine, moving with unhurried precision. His voice, when he spoke, was smooth as glass.

“The room is empty. You could use it whenever you’re ready.”

The words settled over her like a warm blanket, a comfort she hadn’t realised she needed.

That was the thing about Seth.

He had this strange ability to make his words glow . . . to infuse them with something warm, something bright.

Like sunlight breaking through the clouds after weeks of rain.

“I can arrive early tomorrow and show you the apartment,” Seth continued. “When you have finished your shift. I will be, of course, starting mine. We will be like ships in the night, as it were.”

Of course.

Why hadn’t she thought of this before? They would hardly ever see each other. And yet, here she was, momentarily contemplating whether her bedroom door had a lock and if she should wedge the doorstop beneath it when she slept.

But she wouldn’t need to. She would rarely see him. Like ships in the night, Seth had said.

Perfect.

“Yes!” she blurted, a little too eagerly.

“Please… only if that’s okay with your landlord. I can pay him at the end of the month if that’s okay?”

Seth turned back to her, a steaming mug of coffee in hand. His eyes crinkled at the edges, his smile a polite echo of warmth rather than something truly felt.

But Ellen felt it anyway. She had a place to sleep. Not just tonight . . . maybe for the foreseeable future. Relief uncoiled inside her, slow and hesitant, like something waiting for the other shoe to drop.

She was so used to things going right just before they went wrong. Please, universe, let me have this. Just this one thing. A bed. Just a damn bed. A place to put my things.

Ellen sighed, rolling the last few coins between her fingers in her pocket. She was about to say something when she caught Seth staring.

“Is everything okay, Tracy?”

Ellen spun at the sound of Tracy’s name. Tracy stood near the bar, watching them. Her smile was there, but her eyes weren’t playing along.

How long had she been there?

Tracy opened her mouth, moments away from speaking, when a hand fell lightly on her shoulder and interrupted her.

“Good evening, Tracy… Seth… Ellen.”

Another voice. A voice worn down by time and scotch, but still solid.

A middle-aged man stood beside Tracy, dressed simply yet unmistakably expensively. Just jeans and a jumper, but the fabric alone screamed designer, even without a visible logo. A gold watch peeked from beneath his cuff, catching the low bar lighting with every small movement of his wrist.

Jack.

The man who ran things, who owned the bar.

“How was your first day, Seth?”

Seth’s reaction was almost imperceptible . . . a shift, a pause, like a man noting a chess piece had been moved.

“Hello, Dad,” he said, unbothered.

“It has been very enjoyable. I believe I will like it here. Ellen has been kind enough to teach me the amazing art of making coffee.”

A small, almost too perfect smile played at his lips as he passed the mug across the bar.

“I knew you would be arriving soon, so I took the liberty of making you a latte to aid you in your evening shift with Ellen.”

Jack took the mug, barely acknowledging it, his attention fixed on his son.

“Erm… thank you, Seth. That’s very considerate of you.” A pause. “And you say you’ve enjoyed the work?”

Before Seth could answer, Tracy cut in smoothly.

“Evening, Jack.” She tilted her head, smiling with the easy confidence of someone who never had to work for attention.

“Seth’s been a sweetheart. Really fallen into the job, he has. Brightens the place up.”She was looking at Ellen now. But still speaking to Jack. “Let’s go catch up about today’s events in your office before I finish my shift.”

Ellen said nothing.

Neither did Seth. He just smiled at his father, unfazed.

Jack exhaled, reading the room with the weary patience of someone who had done this dance a hundred times before.

“C’mon then, Trace,” he said, already moving. “Let’s go have a chat.”

Tracy followed, her high heels clicking sharply against the floor. And just like that, the moment was gone.

Ellen’s stomach twisted. She had known it was too good to be true. Something bad always happened. Inevitable, like night after day. What was Tracy telling him behind that door?

“My Dad, he’s not a bad guy, Ellen,” Seth said, almost like he had read her mind.

She was about to say something when she caught Seth’s focus shift from her to the band setting up on stage.

His entire body suddenly went unnaturally still.

Not stiff. Not tense.

Just… still.

His right hand had drifted toward his stomach, his palm pressing there, fingers curling inward . . . as if bracing against an invisible pain.

Ellen frowned.

“Seth?”

No response.

His face was unreadable, too smooth, like someone watching a scene they’d already lived before.

Slowly, he pulled his hand away. For a moment, he stared down at his own fingers. Almost like he expected to see something there. His fingers flexed. Clenched. A slow inhale, barely audible.

“Seth, are you alright?” She reached for him, grasping his wrist. His skin was warm beneath her fingers, pulsing with life. He was human. Real.

He blinked rapidly, his breath shuddering out, and mumbled something under his breath.

An apology?

She was sure she heard him say sorry.

His face was damp with sweat. His cheeks glistened under the bar’s dim lighting.

“Seth, what’s wrong?” she whispered.

Before he could answer . . . Tracy’s voice cut through the space between them like a knife. “Ellen!.. Jack wants you in his office… now!”

Ellen stiffened.

And then Tracy saw Seth. Saw the sweat on his face, the paleness, the way Ellen still had his wrist in her grip.

Her expression sharpened. “What’s going on?” Tracy snapped. “Leave him alone!”

Ellen yanked her hand back instinctively, spinning to face her accuser. It made her look guilty. Like she had done something wrong.

“Nothing-I don’t know what’s wrong with him. Shall I call Jack?”

Tracy’s lips curled, a venomous little smirk. “No, you’ve done enough, Ellen.” The words dripped with disdain. “You need to go see Jack.”

She turned her attention back to Seth, softening, syrupy sweet.

“Don’t worry, Seth, Sweetie. Tracy is going to look after you.” Her hand hovered near his back, possessive. “How about I walk you home later? Make sure you get back okay.”

Ellen didn’t move.

Tracy’s tone sharpened like a whip.

“Well? What are you waiting for? Me and Seth can’t go home until you or Jack come and take over the bar.”

Ellen looked at Seth one last time. This time, he didn’t meet her gaze. He looked troubled. Like he was fighting something inside himself. Something she wasn’t meant to see. Ellen swallowed, steadying herself.

She had to face this. See it through. Just accept her fate. She turned, walking around the bar toward Jack’s office.