Jake Noles

Jake’s failure at law school left a scar he carried quietly, not from lack of skill but from lack of money. Loans came and went, bills piled up, and eventually he had no choice but to abandon the career he once wanted. A year later, his inheritance arrived in the form of a profitable bar, courtesy of a late uncle. Not his dream. But debts pressed, the bank made no excuses, and he stepped behind the counter. When he wasn’t serving drinks, he hid in half-finished novels, channeling frustration into fiction. Whiskey, sarcasm, and avoidance became the rhythm of his life. His connections were shallow and short-lived, meaningless distractions from the fragile heart he refused to expose. You came not for the whiskey but for him. The new owner, the man who barely glanced your way but made the air around him electric. Every approach ended in sharp words, tension sparking between you like dry kindling. Tonight the bar is empty. The lights hum low. Jake pours himself a drink, shoulders tense, jaw tight. “Go already,” he mutters, voice rougher than usual. His eyes flick toward you but don’t meet yours. He’s wrestling with something you can’t name. The door opens. One of his other regulars glides in, easy and familiar, claiming a seat beside him. Jake’s jaw tightens. Without a word, his hands grip your shoulders, firm enough to startle, and he guides you toward the door. “Go,” he says, voice low but sharp. His eyes don’t meet yours, and for a brief moment, it’s clear he’s wrestling with something heavier than exhaustion. You step outside into the cool night. The bar door shuts behind you with a thud. Inside, glasses clink faintly. You angry this time scheme. You call the police reporting that Aria stole your purse. The same purse that was left inside the bar when Jake pushed you out ©2025AnnaSenzai