The wind howled outside, rattling the barred windows of Paddy's Pub like an angry animal trying to claw its way in. Inside, the bar was quiet in that eerie way it gets when everything outside has stopped moving. The snow was coming down thick, heavier than the last time the city had been blanketed white, and the streets were empty, silent as the grave. It wasn't that unusual for Philadelphia in the dead of winter, but the storm had come fast, too fast for most people to get home before the city shut down.
Charlie Kelly didn't mind. He never minded the cold. There was something comforting about it, like a blanket you couldn't shake off, a reminder that everything out there, all the noise, the people, the pressure—it could all disappear, at least for a while. Inside Paddy's, things stayed the same. Dim, a little grimy, and safe. It was a place where no one asked too many questions, least of all about Charlie.
He leaned against the sticky bar, staring at a half-empty beer bottle, his finger tracing lazy circles around the rim. The amber liquid sloshed around inside, but he wasn't really focused on it. His mind was drifting, like it did when there was nothing immediate to obsess over. The big things—rats, garbage, stalking the Waitress—none of those were things he could deal with in this moment. So his thoughts just kind of hung there, flicking back and forth between ideas like a faulty light switch.
His dirty nails tapped the bar. Tap, tap, tap. The rhythm kept his mind from slipping too far into the weird places it sometimes went. It was quiet tonight. Too quiet. Even Frank had left, mumbling something about finding warmer bodies elsewhere.
Charlie sniffed, scratching the side of his neck where his hoodie chafed. He loved that hoodie, no matter how stained or smelly it got. It was like a second skin. No one could make him part with it. Not Dennis, not Dee. Not even her.
His mind snapped back to the one person who always managed to cut through the white noise in his head, like a high-pitched whistle he couldn't ignore no matter how much he wanted to.
The Waitress.
Charlie didn't even know her real name. He never needed to. To him, she wasn't like the others, people who had histories and backgrounds and real lives. She was an idea, something perfect in his mind. She was all blond hair and tight black dresses and sharp, biting words that she spit at him like acid, but he never cared. He ate up every insult like it was a gourmet meal. It made him feel alive.
She wasn't like him. She couldn't be. He'd spent years watching her from a distance, trailing after her in ways that were probably more creepy than romantic, but he never cared about that either. Because she was better. Her life was cleaner. More together.
At least, that's what he'd always thought.
The door to Paddy's creaked open with a sound that sliced through the quiet, pulling Charlie out of his fog. Snow blew in behind her, whipping around her ankles as she stepped into the bar. Her black coat was pulled tight around her, and for a second, she stood there, framed by the storm behind her like some kind of painting, perfect and untouchable. Charlie's heart jumped to his throat.
The Waitress.
"Shit," she muttered under her breath, shaking snow off her boots as she slammed the door behind her. Her face was flushed, not with her usual irritation at seeing Charlie, but with the cold. Her hair, usually smooth and styled, was a mess, wet strands sticking to her cheeks, and her eyes were wide with something that looked too close to panic for Charlie's liking. That wasn't like her. Not at all.
She was always composed. Even when she screamed at him, she did it with precision. But now, she looked... frazzled.
"Uh, hey," Charlie said, pushing himself up from the bar and immediately regretting it. He wasn't ready for this. He hadn't prepared. His stomach twisted in knots as he tried to figure out what to say next.
She didn't even look at him. "Do you guys have heat in here?"
Charlie blinked. "Uh, yeah. We got heat."
"Thank God," she muttered, rubbing her hands together. She walked toward the bar, her movements sharp, like she was trying to shake off more than just the cold. She glanced at him, finally, her expression softening for half a second before it hardened again. "I didn't want to come here, but the storm's worse than I thought, and I can't get home."
Charlie's heart hammered in his chest. She wasn't here for him. She never was, but this—this was new. She needed something. Something he had. And that made his brain start whirring, trying to figure out how to turn this moment into something more.
"Yeah, no worries. I mean, uh, you can stay. I'm staying too," Charlie said, trying not to sound too eager. He wiped his hand on his jeans, trying to dry the sweat that was building up on his palms. "The storm's really bad, huh?"
She nodded, but she wasn't looking at him anymore. She was staring at the walls, at the bar, at the dusty bottles that hadn't been touched in months. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, Charlie saw something in her eyes that he didn't recognize. She wasn't just cold. She was tired. Tired in a way that made Charlie feel something strange in his gut.
It wasn't the same feeling he usually had when he looked at her. This was... different.
"So, uh, you want a drink or something?" Charlie asked, trying to fill the silence that had suddenly become suffocating. He fumbled for a glass, his hand shaking slightly. "You know, to warm up?"
She shook her head, pulling her coat tighter around herself. "No. I just want to sit for a minute."
Charlie watched her as she moved to one of the barstools, her shoulders hunched like she was trying to make herself smaller, less noticeable. That wasn't right. That wasn't her. She was always standing tall, always ready to cut someone down with a glance or a word. But now...
Now she looked like she wanted to disappear.
"Are you okay?" Charlie blurted out before he could stop himself.
The Waitress shot him a look that could've burned through steel. "Of course I'm not okay, Charlie. I'm stuck here in the middle of a snowstorm, in this goddamn bar, and—"
She stopped, her jaw tightening as she looked away. For a second, Charlie saw something in her face that wasn't anger. It was fear.
Charlie blinked, trying to process her outburst. His heart fluttered at the sight of her, so close, sitting right there at the bar, the snow dripping off her coat onto the floor. He barely noticed the puddle forming around her boots. She was here, in his space, and all the noise in his head—the usual chaotic mess of rat traps, wild ideas, and the nagging feeling that people were always just a bit too far out of his reach—vanished, replaced by the singular fact that the Waitress washere.
He swallowed hard, his voice catching in his throat. "I'll protect you."
Her head snapped toward him, brows furrowing. "What?"
"I mean... you don't have to worry. I'll take care of you," he repeated, his voice softer this time. He took a step closer to her, awkward but earnest. "You're safe here. I won't let anything happen. I... I'll protect you."
She let out a short, bitter laugh, her eyes sharp and unamused. "Yeah, sure, Charlie. That's exactly what I need right now. Your protection."
Charlie winced but didn't back off. He was used to her barbs, used to her shutting him down, but this time felt different. This wasn't the usual venom she spit his way when he tried to ask her out or follow her home. This was something else. He could see it in the way her hands shook slightly when she reached for a napkin, wiping the condensation off her glass.
"Look, I know I'm not... like... you know, the best at stuff," Charlie said, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. He took a deep breath, willing himself to keep talking even though his voice wavered. "But I'm really good at watching out for you. I mean, I know a lot about you, and I care. Like, a lot. More than... more than anyone else would, probably."
The Waitress raised an eyebrow, her eyes narrowing in on him. "Charlie, you stalk me. You're obsessed. That's not caring. That's creepy."
He flinched again, but it didn't stop the words from spilling out. "No, no, it's because I care so much that I want to be there for you, all the time. I mean... look at you now, right? You're here, and you're upset. And it's okay to be upset. But I'm here too, and I'm going to make sure you're warm, and safe, and... I don't know, whatever else you need."
She stared at him for a long moment, something flickering behind her eyes, but she didn't speak. Instead, she exhaled slowly and glanced over at the bottle of whiskey behind the bar. "Can you just... give me a drink, Charlie? I need something to warm up."
Charlie's eyes lit up as he jumped at the request, eager to do anything for her. "Oh! Yeah, of course, of course! Whatever you want. Anything you want. You don't even have to ask."
He reached for the whiskey bottle with shaking hands, nearly knocking it over in his excitement. His fingers fumbled with the cap, and for a moment, he thought he might mess this up too. But then the cap twisted off, and he poured her a glass, his heart thudding in his chest like he'd just won a prize.
"Here," he said, sliding the glass toward her like it was some grand offering. "This'll warm you right up."
She stared at the glass for a second before picking it up, her hand curling tightly around the tumbler. Charlie watched her intently, his lovesick gaze never leaving her face as she took a slow, deliberate sip. The amber liquid slid down her throat, and she closed her eyes for a moment, letting the warmth spread through her body. When she opened them again, there was a faint sheen of moisture at the corners, but she blinked it away quickly, masking it with a sharp breath.
"Thanks," she muttered, more to the whiskey than to him. She took another sip, her grip on the glass tightening as though it was the only thing keeping her grounded.
Charlie, emboldened by her acceptance of the drink, leaned on the bar closer to her, his face softening with the intensity of his feelings. "You don't have to thank me. I'll always be here. I mean, no matter what happens, even if things go bad, I'll be right here. Protecting you. Watching out for you. Even if you don't want me to."
The Waitress set the glass down, hard enough that the sound made Charlie jump, but she didn't snap at him this time. Instead, she ran a hand through her wet, tangled hair, staring at the drops of water that splattered the bar. "Charlie, I don't need protection. I just... I just need a break, okay? From everything. This—" She gestured vaguely around the bar, her fingers brushing over the glass. "—isn't what I need. I need... something else."
"Like what?" he asked eagerly, desperate to be the one to give her whatever she needed.
She sighed, her shoulders slumping. "I don't know. Something that's not this. My whole life is a mess, Charlie. My job sucks, my apartment is falling apart, and my... everything... is just screwed up."
Charlie blinked at her, his brain working overtime to process what she was saying. He'd always thought of her as this perfect, untouchable thing—something to be worshipped from afar, never really attainable. But now, sitting here in Paddy's, drenched in snow, with a glass of whiskey in her hand and her voice heavy with exhaustion, she didn't seem so perfect. She seemed... human.
"You're not a mess," he said quietly, his voice losing some of its usual frantic energy. "You're just... you're just having a hard time right now. That's all. Everyone has hard times. I mean, I have them all the time." He laughed awkwardly, running a hand through his greasy hair. "But you're strong. You're way stronger than me. You can get through it."
She looked at him, really looked at him for the first time since she'd walked in. The sharpness in her eyes had dulled, replaced by something closer to sadness, maybe even regret. She took another sip of whiskey, her lips parting slightly as if to say something, but then she stopped. Instead, she set the glass back down with a sigh.
"Charlie, you don't understand," she said, her voice flat. "You see me as something I'm not. You always have. I'm not this... this perfect woman you've built up in your head. I'm a mess. I've always been a mess. I drink too much, I make bad decisions, and I can't even keep a job that doesn't make me hate myself." She gestured to the whiskey in front of her. "This? This isn't me trying to stay warm. This is me trying to forget for a few minutes. And you don't get that."
Charlie's eyes widened, and he felt a lump form in his throat. His hands fidgeted on the bar, his fingers picking at the edges of his sleeves, but he forced himself to stay calm, to keep listening. Normally, he'd panic, jump in with something to fix it, but there was something in her voice this time that made him stop. He didn't want to screw this up, not now.
"I... I get it," he said, his voice softer than before, more hesitant. "I mean, maybe not all of it, but I get feeling like everything's falling apart. I feel that way all the time." He swallowed hard, staring down at his hands as he picked at the edge of his sleeve. "I'm not... I'm not perfect either, you know? I know I'm a weirdo. Everyone says I'm gross and dumb and... well, maybe I am. But that's why I know how it feels. Feeling like you're not good enough. Feeling like everyone else has it together and you're just... stuck."
He glanced at her, hoping she would meet his gaze, but she was staring at the whiskey again, her fingers curling around the glass like it was an anchor. He could see it now, that same tired, broken look in her eyes. The same look he saw in his own reflection some nights when the noise in his head was too much to handle.
"I just thought..." He trailed off, fumbling for the right words. "I just thought if I could be there for you, maybe I could help. Like, I could make things better. Because I care about you. A lot."
She laughed again, but it was different this time—quieter, more hollow. She took another drink, draining half the glass in one long swallow before setting it back down with a sigh. "Charlie, I don't need you to fix me. I don't even know if I can be fixed."
The words hit him like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, he just stood there, staring at her like a lost puppy. She was breaking his heart in ways he didn't understand. In his head, she was always this shining, perfect beacon, and no matter how much she pushed him away, he always believed that deep down, she could love him. But now she was sitting here, telling him she was broken, and all he could do was watch.
"I don't think you're broken," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "I think you're just... you've had a rough time. But that doesn't mean you can't be happy. It doesn't mean you can't find something good."
She snorted, her fingers tightening around the glass. "And you think you can be that something good?"
The words stung, sharp and cutting, but he didn't flinch. Not this time. He took a deep breath, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "Yeah. I do."
For the first time in what felt like hours, the Waitress looked at him. Really looked at him. Her eyes softened, just a little, and the hard lines of her face relaxed, like she was too tired to keep up the walls anymore.
Get chapters early and listen to the story (fictioneers)(.thinkific)(.comm). We are also on spotify (find at link).
Preview of next chapter:
Her fingers were in his hair, tugging with a mix of frustration and need as her lips claimed his. He could taste the whiskey on her breath, sharp and intoxicating, and all he could do was follow her lead. His hands, trembling with anticipation, slid down her sides, finding the hem of her coat and pulling it open, the heavy fabric slipping from her shoulders.
She didn't stop him. Instead, she broke the kiss just long enough to shrug off her coat, letting it fall to the floor with a soft thud. Her hands returned to his chest, fingers gripping his hoodie, and in a swift motion, she yanked it upward. Charlie barely had time to register what was happening before the hoodie was over his head, tossed aside as she leaned back in, her lips finding his again.
His breath hitched as the cold air hit his bare skin, but the warmth of her body pressed against his made him forget everything else. He could feel the heat radiating from her, the curve of her body fitting perfectly against him, her legs tightening around his hips as she ground down, making him groan softly into her mouth.