The trouble with being a regular at a bar was just that -- after awhile, people get comfortable with your presence. And it wasn't the kind of part-of-the-furniture comfortable you might expect; Noah had only seen someone attempt to carry on a conversation with a barstool once. People, on the other hand, well, you knew they were listening, even if they didn't say much back. And Noah was apparently one of those people who looked like a good listener, regardless of how much effort he put into sending a vibe that said otherwise.
It was why every once in awhile, namely on the nights he knew his favorite bartender was off, he switched it up. He didn't really care if the Bad Blake lookalike on the stool next to him was thinking of ending it all. Really, he didn't. But more and more he was finding out that the same sad Bad was at every bar; the strongest case he'd ever heard for birth control. Another cosmic message to the universe -- for fuck's sake, stop making that same goddamn guy over and over again.
And this was why he almost didn't say anything to the girl next to him, even after overhearing her conversation with the bartender. He didn't want to be that guy. But he'd been that guy who had been alone at the bar on Thanksgiving. And Christmas. And Valentine's Day, for that matter. And he'd been grateful for Kara's company, even if he hadn't wanted to admit it. Holidays were for being with people who gave a shit about you, not sitting by yourself at a bar, and when sitting by yourself at a bar was your only option, well, it was nice to know there were still decent people in the world.
And he might be old, but dammit, he wasn't one of those grizzly, weathered old perverts that thought they were still God's gift to women. He'd even kind of shaved, so he was definitely okay on the grizzly part.
"Next one's on me," he interjected. More cosmic vibes that she wouldn't give him the same look she'd given the bartender. He'd seen that look enough lately.