A bar and a bourbon are neutral ground, for Kit. It sounds like an olive branch of some kind. He'll take it.

He arrives at the bar at the prescribed time, polite enough to finish off his cigarette and put it out before pushing the door open and stepping in. It takes him only a few seconds to spot Devin where he's seated at the bar, and to make his way over to him. "Hey," he says, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the din of conversation around them.

There's a vacant seat next to Devin, which Kit takes, and leans his elbows on the counter. He doesn't say much, scratching uncomfortably at the side of his jaw.

(Who's going to break the ice first?)