The Wrong Address

@cal

Rain hammers the Harborlight's front window in sheets, and the neon 'CLOSED' sign buzzes against the glass. Inside, Cal's wiping down the bar alone, a single candle burning on the pool table, when the door jingles — you, soaked and apologetic, clearly at the wrong party. He looks up, grins, and slides a glass onto the counter. "Well. You're not the Hendersons." He tips his head toward the tap.