The Rodeo Bar and Grill was already in its Friday-night rhythm by the time Hattie noticed the clock over the bar had ticked past nine.

They’d been there a while. Long enough for the first round to soften the edges of the week. Long enough for the jukebox to cycle through a few familiar songs. Long enough for the cold to melt out of Hattie’s fingers.

The place smelled like fryer oil, beer, and winter coats that had followed their owners inside and been shrugged off with relief. String lights ran crooked along one wall, throwing warm amber halos over the mounted photos of rodeos long past. Laughter rose and fell in uneven bursts. A couple of pool balls cracked together somewhere behind her, sharp and clean.

Hattie leaned back against the worn wooden booth, one knee tucked beneath her, boot hooked casually around the rung of the table leg. She wore a chunky cream knit sweater under a dark wool coat she hadn’t bothered taking off, the sleeves pushed halfway up her forearms. A plaid scarf was draped over the back of the booth beside her, forgotten. Her jeans were soft with wear, her boots scuffed from real use. Comfortable. Familiar. Very her.

She tipped her glass slightly, watching the condensation slide down the side.

Her gaze drifted—not lingering, just noticing.

“Okay,” she said finally, breaking the quiet that had settled between her and Ava like a shared breath. Her voice was easy, warm, already smiling. “We’re not judging for sport. This is… constructive feedback.”

She gestured subtly with her glass toward the bar.

“That one,” she continued, eyes flicking toward a man laughing too loudly at something his friend said, “is an immediate no. Not because he’s loud, but because he knows he’s loud. That’s a man who would order for you without asking and then say, ‘Trust me.’”

She took a sip.

“Hard pass.”

Her eyes moved again, slower this time, scanning the room the way she’d done since they were teenagers—observant without being obvious.

“Oh,” she added, a little softer, amused, “but the guy by the dartboard? That’s a maybe. He has ‘will absolutely help you move but complain the entire time’ energy. Which is not nothing.”

She glanced back at Ava, brows lifting as if to say I’m being generous here.

Hattie shifted in the booth, tucking her foot under her other leg now, leaning forward just enough to rest her elbows on the table.

“I know you say you’re not looking,” she went on, tone gentle but persistent in the way only lifelong friends earned. “And that’s fine. I respect it. Truly.” A beat. “But also… you’ve spent an entire week shaping young minds and carrying everyone else’s emotional baggage. You deserve someone who will at least bring you fries without being asked.”

Her mouth curved into a small grin.

“I’m not even talking soulmates. I’m talking baseline competence.”

She paused, then added, mock-serious, “Optional bonus points if he knows how to listen and doesn’t call you ‘kiddo.’”

Her gaze drifted again, catching on a man at a nearby table who smiled at the bartender like he genuinely liked her as a person.

Hattie hummed thoughtfully.

“That one might be a sleeper hit,” she said. “Good posture. Polite eye contact. No visible ego. He probably owns one really nice jacket and takes care of it.”

She leaned back again, the booth creaking softly beneath her weight.

“I just…” she trailed off, rolling the glass between her palms, voice lowering. “I want you to have something easy. Even if it’s just for a little while.”

The music shifted on the jukebox. Someone laughed too hard again. Outside, a gust of wind rattled the windows, reminding the room how cold it was beyond the glow and noise.

Hattie looked back at Ava, expression soft, familiar, rooted.

“And hey,” she added lightly, lifting her glass an inch, “if we hate all of them, we can always declare tonight a research failure and order fries.”

A beat.

“Actually,” she corrected, smiling wider, “we should probably do that anyway.”

Ava smiled to herself first, slow and fond, before she even lifted her eyes. She rolled her glass an inch across the table with her fingertips, watching the ice knock softly against the side.

“‘Constructive feedback,’” she echoed, amused. “You say that like you’re not absolutely grading men on a curve right now.”

Her gaze followed Hattie’s first gesture toward the bar. She didn’t need long—just one look before she let out a quiet, dismissive breath.

“Oh, no,” Ava said. “You’re right. He knows he’s loud. That’s the problem. That’s a man who thinks volume is charm and surprise drinks are romance.”

She tipped her glass back, then added, dry, “And ‘trust me’ is never a good sign. Not in dating. Not in life.”

Her eyes shifted next, lingering on the guy by the dartboard. She tilted her head, considering.

“…Help-you-move-but-complains is actually a solid middle ground,” she admitted. “Annoying, yes. But reliable. He’d show up with gloves and a truck and remind you he’s missing the game the whole time.”

Ava shifted in the booth, one leg tucking under her without thinking, mirroring Hattie the way she always had. Her coat was off now, draped beside her, revealing a fitted top that hugged her just right—effortless but intentional. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders in soft, lived-in waves, not tight curls, catching the amber light when she moved. Gold hoops glinted at her ears. Tennessee night out, small town, familiar.

“I know I say I’m not looking,” she said, voice quieter now, more honest than defensive. “And most of the time, I mean it.”

She exhaled.

“But teaching high school English will wring you out in ways no one prepares you for. I’ve spent all week explaining symbolism, tone, and why ‘it’s just my opinion’ is not a thesis.”

Her mouth curved faintly.

“So yeah. Someone who brings fries without being asked is starting to sound… aspirational.”

Her eyes followed Hattie’s last glance, settling on the man smiling at the bartender. She studied him a beat longer this time.

“…Okay,” Ava conceded. “Sleeper hit potential. He looks like he listens. Like he says please and thank you without thinking about it. And you’re right—nice jacket energy. The kind that gets hung up instead of tossed over a chair.”

She huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head.

“I hate that you’re this good at reading people,” she added. “It’s unsettling. You could absolutely run background checks based on vibes alone.”

Then her expression softened as Hattie’s voice did.

Ava rolled the glass between her palms, nodding once.

“Easy would be nice,” she said quietly. “Even if it’s just for a little while.”

She lifted her glass and clinked it gently against Hattie’s.

“And fries are absolutely happening,” she said, warmth returning. “Research failure, success—doesn’t matter.”

A beat, then a sideways smile.

“Extra salt. Ranch and ketchup. Small-town Tennessee rules.”

Hattie watched Ava as she spoke, the way she always did—without staring, without interrupting. Just taking her in. The cadence of her voice. The careful honesty threaded through the humor. The familiar way her shoulders loosened when she admitted something real.

It had always been like this.

When you spent most of your life being the small, quiet girl, you learned early that not being noticed came with benefits. You saw who leaned in when they were interested and who talked just to hear themselves speak. You learned which smiles were reflexive and which ones were earned. Patterns emerged if you paid attention long enough.

Either that, or Hattie thought with a faint, private smile, it really was just her superpower.

She rolled her glass once between her palms, the cold grounding, then set it down gently.

“It’s not unsettling,” she said mildly. “It’s survival.” A beat. Then softer, fond. “And years of practice.”

Her eyes drifted back toward the room—not hunting, not hopeful. Just observing. She clocked the way people held themselves when they thought no one was watching. Who checked their phones compulsively. Who angled their bodies toward others without realizing it. Who laughed too hard. Who listened.

She tipped her head slightly, considering the bartender-smiler again, then looked back at Ava.

“You deserve someone who notices you the same way,” she said quietly. No theatrics. No teasing now. Just truth. “Someone who clocks when you’re tired before you say it. Who doesn’t make you explain yourself after a long week. Who knows when to step closer and when to give you space.”

Her thumb traced the rim of her glass absently.

“Someone who loves you the way you teach,” Hattie added after a moment. “With intention. And patience. And the belief that what you’re saying matters.”

She didn’t say like Declan loves me. She didn’t have to. The comparison lived gently between them anyway, unspoken but understood—not as pressure, not as expectation. Just proof that it existed. That kind of care was possible.

Hattie smiled then, small and warm, the way she always did when she was trying not to make something heavy.

“And yes,” she went on, the smile widening, “fries are non-negotiable. I don’t care if tonight ends in true love, mild interest, or a complete sociological disaster.”

She leaned back into the booth again, tugging her coat a little closer around her, boots knocking lightly against the table leg.

Her gaze flicked back to Ava, steady and affectionate.

“Best-case scenario,” she added lightly, lifting her glass a fraction, “we find you a decent man. Worst-case scenario… we eat fries and go home exactly as we are.”

A beat.

“Which, honestly,” Hattie said, smiling into her drink, “has worked out pretty well for us so far.”

Ava didn’t answer right away.

She looked down at her glass, thumb brushing the cool edge, the ice chiming softly when she shifted it. For a moment, she just breathed—slow, steady—letting Hattie’s words settle where they landed. Somewhere deep. Somewhere familiar.

“You always say things like that,” Ava murmured finally, not looking up yet, voice quiet but steady. “And then act like you didn’t just reach in and rearrange something important.”

She smiled faintly at that, the kind of smile that came with a little vulnerability attached.

When she did lift her eyes, they were warm—open in the way she rarely let herself be.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever said I deserve to be noticed,” she admitted. “Not like that. Usually it’s about what I do. Or how well I handle things. Or how reliable I am.”

She gave a small, self-aware huff of a laugh.

“Which is fine. I’ve built a whole life around being capable.”

Her fingers stilled on the glass.

“But being seen before I have to explain myself?” she added quietly. “That sounds… nice.”

Ava leaned back, shoulders pressing into the booth, eyes drifting briefly toward the room the way Hattie’s had—taking it in, then letting it go.

“And for the record,” she said, a little lighter now, “if someone ever tried to love me the way I teach, they’d need a strong constitution and a high tolerance for teenage chaos.”

A beat.

“But intention and patience?” She nodded once. “Yeah. I’d take that.”

She met Hattie’s gaze again, something affectionate and deeply rooted there—years of knowing, of being known.

“And you’re right,” Ava said, lifting her glass to mirror Hattie’s. “Worst-case scenario is fries and going home exactly as we are.”

Her mouth curved into a soft, genuine smile.

“Which has gotten us through just about everything.”

She clinked her glass gently against Hattie’s.

“To fries,” Ava said. “And surviving. And… not settling.”

Then, with a quiet grin—

“And maybe ordering extra, just in case.”

Hattie felt the clink of Ava’s glass more than she heard it—felt it settle somewhere low and steady in her chest, like a promise that had already been kept a hundred times before.

She didn’t rush to answer. She never did, not when something mattered.

Instead, she held Ava’s gaze, really held it, the way she always had when they were kids sitting cross-legged on library carpet or teenagers whispering in the dark at sleepovers. The room hummed around them—music, laughter, the low scrape of chairs—but it faded to background noise, the way it always did when it was just the two of them inside the same moment.

Hattie’s mouth curved into a small, crooked smile.

“That’s because I don’t say things unless I mean them,” she said quietly. “And I don’t rearrange things unless they’re already asking to be moved.”

She tipped her glass back, took a sip, then set it down carefully, like she was placing something fragile exactly where it belonged.

“You are capable,” she went on, gently but firmly. “You always have been. You were the kid who finished early and helped everyone else. The teenager who stayed late to tutor. The adult who somehow manages to hold a room together without raising her voice.”

Her shoulders lifted in a faint shrug.

“But that doesn’t mean that’s all you are.”

She glanced down at the table for a beat, gathering her thoughts—not unsure, just precise. Hattie had always believed words mattered. Ava had taught her that long before she started teaching anyone else.

“You shouldn’t have to earn rest,” she said. “Or gentleness. Or someone paying attention to the quiet parts of you.”

Her eyes lifted again, steady and warm.

“And for what it’s worth,” Hattie added, a hint of humor threading back in, “any man who survives teenage chaos with grace is probably overqualified for Bedford Falls anyway.”

She smiled wider at that, easing the weight without dismissing it.

The jukebox shifted songs. Someone down the bar laughed, sharp and bright, and the bartender called out an order over the noise. Life kept moving around them, unbothered by the small, important thing unfolding in the booth.

Hattie exhaled softly, shoulders relaxing.

She caught the bartender’s eye and lifted two fingers, then pointed down toward the table with a small, decisive nod. When he looked her way fully, she leaned just enough toward the aisle to be heard.

“Two baskets of fries,” she said easily. “Extra salt.”

A beat.

“And ketchup and ranch on the side, please.”

She settled back into the booth again as if the matter were officially handled, fingers curling once around her glass. The moment softened, eased into something familiar and unforced—exactly where it belonged.

Ava’s breath caught—not sharply, not enough to show, just enough that she noticed it. She felt the weight of Hattie’s words settle into her the way they always had: not like pressure, but like being held in place.

She didn’t look away. She never did when it was Hattie.

For a second, she let herself remember—library carpet rough under her legs, Hattie’s shoulder warm against hers; the way they used to whisper after lights-out, careful not to wake anyone, like the quiet itself was something sacred they were protecting. It all lived right there, threaded through the present without asking permission.

“You’ve always been good at that,” Ava said softly. “Knowing when something’s ready to be said.”

Her fingers tightened briefly around her glass, then relaxed.

“And you’re right,” she continued, voice steady but low. “I’ve been capable for a long time. It’s… comfortable. People know what to expect from me when I’m useful.”

She smiled, small and a little self-aware.

“But it gets heavy,” she admitted. “Being the one who finishes early. Who stays late. Who holds things together so no one else has to notice they’re coming apart.”

She swallowed, eyes flicking down to the table for a moment before lifting again.

“I forget sometimes that I don’t have to justify rest,” Ava said. “Or softness. Or wanting someone to see me before I explain myself.”

Her mouth curved faintly at the joke, grateful for it.

“And for the record,” she added, “any man who survives teenage chaos with grace is probably terrifyingly competent. I don’t know if Bedford Falls could handle that kind of disruption.”

The fries were ordered, and something about that—so ordinary, so them—made Ava laugh quietly. Not sharp. Not guarded. Just real.

She lifted her glass again, touching it gently to Hattie’s.

“You know,” she said, warmth threading through her voice, “there were years when I thought we’d grown too far apart to ever come back to this.”

She met Hattie’s eyes fully now.

“And then I came home,” Ava said simply. “And it was like my body remembered before my brain did.”

Her smile softened, deep and certain.

“Thank you for never making me earn my way back,” she added. “For just… saving the seat.”

She leaned back into the booth, the noise of the bar returning around them, and let herself be exactly where she was—seen, settled, and exactly enough.

Declan came in with Miles at his side, the cold still clinging to their jackets, the noise of Rodeo Bar already bleeding out into the street before the door had even shut behind them.

The place hit him all at once—scuffed wood floors, neon buzzing low, warmth pressing in after the bite of the cold. Familiar enough that his shoulders loosened without him telling them to.

He shook out of his coat and moved toward the bar, half-listening, eyes already drifting. Habit. Reflex.

And then he saw her.

Hattie was curled into one of the booths along the far wall, one leg tucked under her, body angled toward Ava. She was laughing at something Ava had said, head tipped back just enough that it caught the light. Present. Easy. Like she belonged exactly where she was.

His first thought was simple, grounding.

Okay. She’s here.

The second came a beat too late.

She told you this morning.

Something about drinks. About Ava. Said casually while tying her boots, like it didn’t matter. Like it hadn’t lodged itself somewhere he’d apparently misplaced until now.

He looked at her again, slower this time. Took in the way her hand moved when she talked, the way she leaned in to listen. Girl time. Her night. Not his.

For a second—just one—he considered leaving it alone.

Letting her have the space. Letting the moment stay untouched.

He turned back to the bar, ordered a beer. One. Nothing ambitious. The glass was cold in his hand when it landed, grounding him again.

He lifted it, took a small sip. Pretended that was the end of it.

It wasn’t.

His eyes found her anyway, like they were pulled there. She hadn’t seen him yet. That felt unfair, somehow. Like knowing something she didn’t.

He exhaled through his nose, decision already made before he admitted it.

“Alright,” he said, more to himself than anyone. “I’ll be quick.”

He picked up his beer and stepped away from the bar, weaving through bodies, stopping just short of the booth so he didn’t crowd her. Didn’t want to break the shape of what she and Ava had carved out.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, careful. Not an interruption so much as a soft knock. “I forgot you mentioned this earlier.”

His eyes flicked to Ava briefly, polite, acknowledging.

“I won’t steal you,” he added, already meaning yet. “Just wanted to say hi.”

He waited there, beer cool against his palm, hoping he hadn’t crossed the line he’d almost respected.

Hattie smiled at Ava’s last words, something warm and steady settling in her chest.

“Always,” she said simply, like it had never been a question. Like it never would be.

She took another sip of her drink, then leaned back into the booth, eyes drifting back out into the room as the bar noise swelled around them again. Music. Laughter. Friday night finding its groove.

“Okay,” she added, lighter now, a familiar spark returning. “Reset. We got emotional. That’s allowed. But I’m not done being helpful.”

Her gaze slid across the room again, practiced and effortless.

“See—corner table, flannel guy?” she murmured, barely moving her lips. “Looks promising until you realize he’s been telling the same story for fifteen minutes and hasn’t checked if anyone else is still listening.”

A pause.

“And the one leaning too hard into the bar like gravity’s a personal enemy? That man owns at least three motivational mugs and calls himself an entrepreneur.”

She glanced back at Ava, eyes bright, mouth curving.

“I’m just saying. Discernment is a gift.”

She was mid-scan—already clocking another potential when a voice cut gently through the noise.

“Hey.”

It took her half a second to register it. Another half to place it.

Then she looked up.

And lit up.

It was immediate. Unmistakable. Like someone had turned a dimmer switch all the way up. Her smile broke wide and unguarded, joy blooming across her face before she could think to temper it.

“Declan—”

She was already sliding out of the booth, boots hitting the floor as she stood. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t second-guess the moment. She stepped right into him, arms wrapping around his shoulders, pressing a quick, warm kiss to his mouth like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Hi,” she added softly, almost laughing into the word.

She pulled back just enough to look at him, hands still resting at his sides, eyes bright with something affectionate and fond.

“Ohhh,” she said, tone instantly teasing, brows lifting. “You forgot, huh?”

Her smile turned playful, knowing.

“Let me guess—you just happened to remember the second you realized where we were.” A beat. “Or you needed an excuse to check on me.”

She glanced back briefly toward Ava, grin still firmly in place, then returned her attention to him, thumb brushing absently against the hem of his jacket.

“So,” Hattie asked, genuinely curious now, warmth still humming through her voice, “what are you actually doing here?”

Miles followed Declan into the Rodeo Bar with the kind of easy familiarity that came from too many Friday nights ending in the same place.

Cold still clung to him when the door shut behind them, the warmth hitting his face all at once—beer, grease, old wood, and the low electric hum of a place that knew exactly what it was. The noise wrapped around him fast. Laughter. Music. A pool cue cracking somewhere to the left.

He shrugged out of his jacket and slung it over the back of the nearest barstool. Dark denim, worn-in boots, a gray henley under a heavier canvas coat he hadn’t bothered to button all the way—nothing flashy, nothing fussy. Miles liked clothes that didn’t ask questions. Stuff that could take a spill, a long night, or a bad idea without making a fuss.

His mood sat somewhere between tired and content. Long week. Muscles still humming from it. The kind of night where a beer felt earned, not celebratory.

They drifted toward the bar together. Declan ordered first—one beer, simple—and Miles followed suit without overthinking it.

“Same,” he said to the bartender, voice easy. When the cold glass hit his palm a second later, he exhaled through his nose like his body had been waiting for it.

He leaned back against the bar, elbow resting on the edge, eyes wandering the room while Declan’s attention drifted elsewhere.

Miles watched people the way some folks watched games. Half-engaged, half-amused. A couple arguing quietly at a high-top like they were trying not to lose. A group of guys too loud, too early in the night. A woman at the end of the bar scrolling her phone with the intensity of someone avoiding eye contact on purpose.

Then Declan shifted beside him.

Miles felt it more than saw it—the way Declan’s posture changed, attention narrowing. He followed his line of sight just in time to see him peel away from the bar, beer in hand, threading through bodies toward one of the booths along the far wall.

Miles took a slow sip, eyes tracking him.

That’s when he noticed the girls.

One of them was unmistakably Hattie—easy to spot once you knew what you were looking for. Small, bright, curled into the booth like she belonged there. Laughing.

And then his gaze landed on the other one.

Ava.

Miles stilled just a fraction, the rim of his glass hovering near his mouth.

Huh.

He watched for a second longer, not staring—just registering. The way Ava sat. The familiarity between them. The way Declan stopped short of the booth, careful, like he didn’t want to intrude.

Miles took another drink, thoughtful now.

“Well,” he muttered to himself quietly, more observation than judgment, “that tracks.”

He leaned back against the bar again, content to stay put, letting Declan have his moment while the night continued to unfold exactly the way it was supposed to.

Ava stayed where she was for a moment longer, letting the scene settle.

Hattie’s laughter was still bright, still threaded with that familiar warmth, her hand resting easy at Declan’s side like it belonged there. Declan stood close but careful, shoulders slightly curved inward, beer forgotten at his hip. It was a shape Ava recognized—a shape that didn’t need managing.

The bar pressed in around them: the low thrum of bass from the jukebox, a burst of laughter from somewhere near the pool tables, the clink of glass on wood. Friday night finding its rhythm.

Ava took a slow sip of her drink and leaned back against the booth, eyes drifting without urgency.

That’s when she noticed him.

Miles was at the far end of the bar, half-turned, one elbow resting on the wood, beer hanging loose in his hand. The light caught the edge of his profile—jaw, brow, the worn-in comfort of someone who didn’t need to perform for a room. He wasn’t scanning for attention. Just watching. Taking things in.

Their eyes met.

It wasn’t abrupt. It didn’t snap. It just… landed.

Recognition softened her expression immediately. Not surprise—she’d clocked him the moment they’d talked at Eric’s—but something quieter. A sense of continuity. Like picking up a conversation that had paused, not ended.

She smiled.

Small at first. Then warmer. A little crooked.

Miles didn’t look away.

Ava glanced back toward the booth, checking in. Hattie and Declan were mid-tease now, caught in their own gravity, voices low, body language easy and familiar. They didn’t need her in that second.

She set her glass down, slid out of the booth, and stood.

The floor was sticky in places, worn smooth in others. She moved through the room with the practiced ease of someone who knew how to navigate crowds without apologizing for existing. As she crossed, she caught fragments of conversation—someone complaining about work, someone laughing too loudly, someone calling for another round.

Her attention stayed on Miles.

Up close, he looked the same as he had at the diner: grounded, unflashy, comfortable in his own skin. Dark denim, boots scuffed just enough to tell a story, a canvas coat folded over the barstool beside him. He looked like he belonged here without needing the room to confirm it.

She stopped beside him, not directly in front—angled just enough to keep it easy. Close, but not intrusive.

“Well,” she said, voice light, carrying just enough to cut through the noise. “Either Bedford Falls really is as small as everyone says…”

She tipped her head slightly, smile deepening.

“…or we’re both developing a pattern.”

Her eyes flicked to his beer, condensation pooling against his fingers, then back to his face.

“Hey, Miles,” she added, softer now.

Declan let his eyes follow Ava just a second longer than he meant to—the way she cut through the crowd without hesitation, the way Miles straightened almost imperceptibly when she stopped beside him. There was an ease there he hadn’t expected, something already in motion before he’d even noticed it starting.

It wasn’t unsettling. Just… new.

He drew in a slow breath and turned fully back to Hattie, letting the bar noise swell back into place around them. The booth, the amber light, the hum of conversation—it all felt warmer when he looked at her again.

“Did I miss a chapter?” he asked quietly, head angling just enough to indicate the bar without pulling his attention away from her. “I didn’t know Ava and Miles knew each other.”

His brow lifted slightly, more curious than concerned, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.

“Or is this one of those things where Bedford Falls decides you’ve lived here long enough and just starts skipping the introductions?”

He stepped closer, closing the space he’d deliberately left earlier. Not pressing. Just choosing to be nearer now that the moment had shifted. His knee brushed the edge of the booth, the worn vinyl creaking softly under the movement.

“How’s your night going?” he asked, voice low, pitched just for her. “You looked like you were right in the middle of something important when I walked up.”

His gaze softened as it traced her face—the familiar lines, the way her expression shifted when she laughed, the loose curl that had slipped free and fallen across her cheek. Without really thinking about it, he reached up, knuckles grazing her skin as he gently tucked the strand back behind her ear.

The touch lingered for half a second longer than necessary.

“I missed you today,” he said, quieter still, the words grounded and unembellished. Not heavy. Not dramatic. Just true. “Felt strange not crossing paths more than once.”

He dropped his hand back to his side, the cool weight of the beer steadying him again, but his attention never left her. The room kept moving around them—glasses clinking, laughter bursting and fading—but for a moment, it felt like they were standing in the eye of it, suspended and easy, waiting to see where the night would lean next.

Hattie’s eyes followed Ava almost without her meaning to.

She watched the way her friend slid out of the booth, how naturally she moved through the room—unapologetic, unhurried. Watched her stop beside Miles, the angle of her body easy, open. Watched the way his posture shifted when he noticed her, subtle but unmistakable.

Huh.

The thought wasn’t sharp or worried. Just curious. Like noticing a door crack open somewhere you hadn’t realized existed.

She looked back at Declan and found the same question already sitting in his expression, brow faintly knit, mouth tipped in that thoughtful half-smile he got when something didn’t quite add up yet.

“Okay,” she said quietly, amused. “So it’s not just me.”

Her gaze flicked once more toward the bar, then back to him. “I have no idea what that is. That just… started happening.”

She smiled, small and fond, then sighed softly as if letting go of it for now.

“But,” she added, brightening, “I do know what you interrupted.”

She leaned back against the edge of the booth, shoulders relaxed, eyes dancing.

“The last hour of my life has been dedicated to judging the men in this bar. Thoroughly. Ruthlessly. With charts.”

A beat.

“No actual charts,” she corrected. “But spiritually? Very organized.”

She tilted her head, studying him openly now, affection clear and unguarded.

“And I have to tell you,” Hattie went on, lowering her voice like she was sharing classified information, “you are the first and only ten out of ten that’s walked through that door tonight.”

Her smile turned playful. “Everyone else topped out at maybe a six on a generous curve.”

She reached out, fingers brushing the front of his jacket, familiar and grounding.

“I missed you today too,” she admitted, softer now. “It felt weird. Like passing a doorway and not seeing the light on.”

Her gaze held his, warm and steady.

“And you were right,” she added, glancing briefly toward the bar again where Ava and Miles were mid-conversation now, easy and absorbed. “You weren’t stealing me.”

She slid fully back into the booth then, shifting so there was clearly space beside her, eyes lifting to him with a quiet invitation.

“But since Ava seems occupied,” Hattie said lightly, “I think it’s probably fine if you sit. For a minute.”

A pause, then a grin.

“Strictly for quality control purposes.”

She leaned back against the booth, already angling herself toward where he would be, perfectly content, perfectly happy—ready to let the night keep unfolding exactly as it wanted to.

Miles noticed her before she was close enough to speak.

Not in a dramatic way. Just the quiet shift of attention that came from years of clocking exits, conversations, and people who moved with intention. Ava cut through the room like she belonged there—not scanning, not second-guessing, not shrinking. That alone was enough to pull his focus.

She smiled at him.

It wasn’t performative. It wasn’t polite-for-the-sake-of-it. It was warm, a little crooked, like it had found him instead of the other way around.

Miles straightened without thinking.

Not stiff. Just… present. Shoulders rolling back, weight shifting more evenly through his boots. The kind of adjustment you made when you realized you were about to actually talk to someone instead of just exist in the same room.

Okay, he thought, amused at himself. Apparently we’re doing this.

He watched her glance back toward the booth—toward Declan and Hattie—before she stepped fully into his space. Not crowded. Not distant. Comfortable.

When she spoke, he listened.

Really listened.

He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t rush to fill the beat between her words. He caught the humor, the implication, the way she framed it like a coincidence instead of a decision. Small town. Patterns. Fair enough.

A corner of his mouth lifted.

“Bedford Falls does love a pattern,” he said easily, voice low enough to match hers. “But I’m hoping it’s the good kind. Not the ‘running into your third-grade teacher at the liquor store’ kind.”

He tipped his beer slightly toward her, an unspoken hello.

“Hey, Ava.”

Saying her name felt natural. Like it belonged in his mouth more than he’d expected.

His gaze flicked, brief and casual, toward the booth where Declan had clearly settled in beside Hattie now—her posture open, his turned toward her, gravity doing its thing.

Miles looked back at Ava, curious but not nosy.

“So,” he said, head tilting just a fraction. “How do you know them?”

Not probing. Just genuine interest. A question offered, not demanded.

“And more importantly,” he added, dry humor threading through, “am I about to hear a story that proves Bedford Falls is even smaller than I thought?”

Ava slowed a fraction as she reached him, not stopping outright, just letting the moment arrive instead of colliding with it. She tucked her hands into the pockets of her coat, thumbs hooking along the seams the way they always did when she was grounding herself. The bar noise pressed in around them — low music, glass on wood, someone laughing too loudly near the dartboard — but the space between them felt oddly insulated.

She smiled again, a little softer than before, like the first one had been instinct and this one was a choice.

“Yeah,” she said, voice light but warm. “Bedford Falls really commits to its patterns. I think the town would take it personally if we all stopped running into the same people in different lighting.”

His liquor store comment pulled a quiet laugh from her — breathy, unguarded.

“And honestly,” she added, tilting her head, “I’ll take this over the third-grade-teacher-by-the-wine-cooler scenario any day.”

She followed his glance toward the booth, not turning fully — just enough to confirm what she already knew. Declan leaned toward Hattie, familiar and easy, her body angled toward him without thinking. Ava’s expression softened immediately, affection settling in her eyes like muscle memory.

“Hattie and I grew up together,” she said, turning back to Miles. “Elementary school. Second grade, I think.” A small smile tugged at her mouth. “We were quiet kids. Books, crafts, sitting on the bus pretending we didn’t care who sat where.”

She paused, letting the memory sit.

“We just… never stopped,” she continued. “Even when we tried to live very different lives for a while, we always circled back.” Her shoulders lifted in a small, fond shrug. “She’s family now. The kind you don’t have to explain yourself to.”

Her gaze drifted back toward Declan for a moment before she spoke again.

“And Declan’s newer,” she said carefully, the corner of her mouth lifting with restrained amusement. “A few years. Long enough to earn his place.” A beat. “He’s good to her. That’s really all that matters.”

She exhaled softly, like saying it out loud settled something.

Ava glanced down at her boots, scuffing one toe lightly against the floor before looking back up at Miles. Her eyes were thoughtful now, open.

“So—no scandal,” she added gently. “No dramatic reveal.” A pause. “Just a lot of history, and people who learned how to keep choosing each other.”

She studied him then — not intensely, just attentively — the way she always did when she was genuinely curious.

“What about you?” she asked, voice easy, unpressured. “Are you someone who likes the patterns once you notice them…”
A faint smile.
“Or did you think you were just passing through tonight and ended up here by accident?”

She didn’t rush to fill the space after that.
She let the question sit between them — offered, not demanded — as the bar hummed on around them, Bedford Falls doing what it always did: quietly pulling people back into orbit.

Declan followed her gaze to the bar, clocked the way Ava and Miles had fallen into that easy, absorbed pocket of conversation — shoulders angled in, voices low, the rest of the room blurring out around them.

“Huh,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

Then he looked back at Hattie and that thoughtful half-smile shifted, softened.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Not just you.”

He leaned in a little, forearm resting along the back of the booth, posture relaxed but attentive — the way he only ever got when he was exactly where he wanted to be.

“That wasn’t on my bingo card for tonight,” he added. “But I’m not mad at it. Miles could use someone who actually looks at him when he talks.”

His eyes flicked back to Hattie when she mentioned the judging, amusement sparking immediately.

“Oh, I interrupted a system?” he asked, mock-serious. “Damn. I knew I felt a disturbance in the universe.”

When she called him a ten, his mouth twitched — not cocky, not embarrassed, just pleased in that quiet way he had when her approval landed square in his chest.

“Only ten in the building?” he said low. “High praise. I’ll try not to let it go to my head.”

Her fingers brushing his jacket grounded him more than she probably realized. The teasing drained out of his expression when she admitted she’d missed him.

“Yeah,” he said, softer. “I felt it too. Like somethin’ was off by a degree.”

He didn’t overexplain it. Didn’t need to. Just met her eyes and let the truth sit there between them.

When she slid back and made space, the invitation unmistakable, Declan didn’t hesitate.

He shifted fully into the booth beside her, close without crowding, knee brushing hers, arm settling easily behind her shoulders like it had always belonged there.

“Quality control, huh?” he murmured, leaning in just enough that only she could hear. “Happy to assist.”

He glanced once more toward the bar — Ava laughing now, Miles mid-story — then back to Hattie, attention locking in on her completely.

“For the record,” he added quietly, thumb brushing her shoulder in an absent, affectionate gesture, “I wasn’t worried about stealin’ you.”

A beat.

“I just wanted to come home to you.”

And then he settled, easy and unhurried, letting the night do what it was already doing — unfold around them, exactly right.

Hattie clocked Ava and Miles at the bar in the same quiet way she clocked everything—without staring, without attaching meaning too fast. Just a gentle mental bookmark.

Circle back later, she told herself. Debrief. Tea pending.

Then her attention slid back to Declan, and everything else softened around the edges.

It always did.

He was settled beside her now, tall and solid and unfairly handsome in that way that never stopped catching her off guard. Not flashy. Not trying. Just… there. Grounded. Like the room adjusted itself around his presence whether it meant to or not.

Her mouth curved, slow and fond.

“For the record,” she said, tipping her head slightly as she looked at him, “you’re not just the only ten in this bar.”

She leaned in a fraction, voice warm with certainty.

“You’re the only ten in every room, as far as I’m concerned.”

A beat. Then a spark of mischief lit her eyes.

“Okay—exception,” she amended, holding up one finger. “Gregory Peck.”

She smiled sweetly, unapologetic. “But he’s been dead for decades, so I think you’re safe.”

Her shoulder brushed his as she settled more comfortably against the booth, perfectly content to let the world keep spinning without her active participation for a minute.

She glanced up at him, eyes soft, curious in the way that meant she actually wanted the answer.

“So,” Hattie asked, gently, like she always did. “How was your day?”

Not rushed. Not loaded. Just an invitation.

Her fingers toyed absently with the edge of his sleeve as she waited, relaxed and present, the night humming on around them—fries on the way, friends nearby, and Declan right where she wanted him.

Miles didn’t interrupt.

He didn’t nod along exaggeratedly or jump in with a comment to prove he was tracking. He just listened—really listened—the way he always did when something felt like it mattered. Ava’s voice cut cleanly through the bar noise, steady and thoughtful, and he let it land where it landed without trying to shape it into anything else.

He took in the way she talked about Hattie. The history. The quiet longevity of it. The way she said family without hesitation, like it wasn’t symbolic, just factual. That alone told him more than most introductions ever did.

His gaze drifted, briefly, back toward the booth.

He’d met Hattie. Once or twice. Always with Declan. Pleasant. Kind. Easy to be around in that low-key way that didn’t ask for attention. But standing here now, watching her with Declan, Miles realized how little he’d actually seen her before.

This was different.

Declan had an arm along the back of the booth, body angled toward her without thinking about it. No posturing. No guard. Just… present. Like he’d stepped into a scene he didn’t need to rehearse.

Miles had known Declan a long time.

He’d never seen him framed like this.

That’s a locked shot, Miles thought absently. No coverage needed.

His attention slid back to Ava as she finished, her last question offered, not pressed. He took a second—just enough to line things up internally—then tipped his beer back, a slow sip, grounding.

“I like patterns,” he said finally, voice easy, unforced. “Or maybe I just like noticing when somethin’ keeps showing up for a reason.”

He rested his forearm against the bar, shoulders relaxed now.

“Tonight felt like a pass-through when I walked in,” he added, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “One drink. Head home. End of reel.”

His eyes flicked back toward the booth again, just for a beat.

“But that,” he said, nodding subtly toward Declan and Hattie, “doesn’t look accidental.”

He looked back at Ava, expression open.

“And if Bedford Falls insists on looping the same characters into the frame until they figure something out…” A small huff of a laugh. “I’m not mad at the direction.”

He lifted his glass slightly, a quiet punctuation.

“So I guess the answer is—no,” he said. “I didn’t plan on anything tonight. But I’m usually curious enough to stay when the scene feels like it’s still rolling.”

Declan shifted a little closer as he talked, the vinyl of the booth giving a quiet sigh under his weight. The bar was louder now—Friday loud—glasses clinking, someone laughing too hard near the dartboard, boots scraping against the floor as people drifted in from the cold. He clocked it all without really looking, the way he always did. Habit. Background noise.

His fingers wandered to the edge of the table while he spoke, nudging the salt shaker an inch to the left, then straightening it again like it mattered. He rolled it once between his palms, the grit rasping softly inside, before setting it back down in line with the ketchup bottle. Order, even in small things.

“Was one of those days where everybody wants somethin’ from you at the same time,” he said, voice low but steady. “Radio never quiet. Folks cuttin’ it too close. Couple guys already halfway checked out and it’s not even midnight yet.”

He glanced around then—quick, instinctive. A group of regulars at the bar. Ava and Miles angled toward each other, mid-conversation, easy. A waitress weaving through with a tray balanced on one hip. Nothing urgent. Nothing wrong.

His attention slid back to Hattie like it always did.

He reached for her hand then, not dramatic about it—just caught her fingers where they rested near his sleeve. His thumb brushed across her knuckles, slow, familiar, grounding. He traced the faint line at the base of her ring finger like he was thinking without saying it.

“But all day,” he went on, quieter now, “I kept picturin’ this. You in a booth. Fries on the way. That look you get when you’re listenin’ but already smilin’.”

A faint huff of a smile crossed his face as he picked up one of the paper napkins, folding it once, then again, absently creasing the edge before smoothing it flat with the heel of his hand.

“Funny how your brain knows where it wants to land,” he said. “Even when the rest of you’s still stuck clock-watchin’.”

He leaned in just enough that his shoulder brushed hers again, solid and warm.

“And now,” he added, thumb giving her hand a gentle squeeze, “it’s loud in here, and people are everywhere, and I can still breathe.”

His eyes flicked to the empty space on the table where the fries would land soon, then back to her.

“That’s how I know the day’s over,” he finished softly. “When I stop messin’ with things just to keep my hands busy… and realize they’re already right where they’re supposed to be.”

Declan’s thumb kept its slow path over her knuckles, a steady back-and-forth like he was anchoring himself there. He glanced down at their hands for a second, then back up at her face, eyes softer now that the edge of the day had finally dulled.

He nudged the salt shaker again without thinking, then stilled it with two fingers and let out a quiet breath through his nose, half a smile tugging at his mouth.

“But enough about me,” he said, low and easy. “I’ve talked your ear off already.”

He tilted his head slightly, really looking at her this time—not just seeing her, but checking in the way he always did. Like he was reading between the lines of her posture, the set of her shoulders, the way she was holding herself tonight.

“How was your day?” he asked. Not rushed. Not casual. “Like… actually.”

His fingers slid from her knuckles to lace gently with hers, fitting easy, familiar. His other hand drifted to the table again, tapping once near the edge of a coaster before settling.

“You holdin’ up okay?” he added, quieter. “Work alright? People behave, or did you have to use that tone you save for nonsense?”

A flicker of amusement crossed his face at that, but it didn’t undercut the sincerity underneath.

He glanced briefly toward the bar—Ava laughing at something Miles said—then back to Hattie, attention snapping right back into place.

“And you,” he continued, thumb brushing the side of her hand now, slow and reassuring. “How’re you feelin’? Not the answer you give everybody else. The real one.”

The noise of the bar swelled around them—someone calling for another round, chairs scraping, music shifting songs—but Declan stayed right there with her, shoulders angled in, space carved out just for the two of them.

“I wanna hear it,” he said simply. “All of it, if you’ve got it.”

Ava held his gaze as he spoke, not studying him so much as staying with him — the way she always did when something felt like it deserved her full attention. She let the bar noise blur at the edges: the scrape of a chair, a burst of laughter, the clink of glass. None of it felt intrusive anymore. The moment had narrowed, focused.

She smiled when he said patterns, the word settling somewhere familiar in her chest.

“I think that’s a good way to live,” she said softly. “Noticing when something keeps showing up instead of brushing past it and hoping it explains itself later.”

Her eyes followed his brief glance toward the booth, and this time she didn’t just register it — she saw it. Declan’s arm along the back, Hattie angled toward him without thought, the kind of ease that came from repetition and choice, not luck. Ava’s expression softened, but there was a steadiness in it too, something grounded.

“No,” she agreed quietly. “That’s not accidental.”
A small pause.
“That’s people deciding, again and again, that they’re in the right place.”

She turned back to Miles, shifting her weight so she was angled fully toward the bar now. Not closer in a way that crowded him — just more present, more intentional. Her glass rested under her palm, the condensation cool against her skin.

“And Bedford Falls…” she added, a trace of dry humor threading through her voice, “has a way of looping you back into things until you finally stop pretending you didn’t notice them the first time. It’s patient. Persistent. Kind of relentless.”

His comment about the scene still rolling pulled a quiet laugh from her — soft, surprised, real.

“I like that,” she said. “Staying when it doesn’t feel finished yet.”
Her brows lifted slightly. “Most people are so eager for clean endings.”

She lifted her glass just a little, echoing his gesture without thinking, then let it settle back against the bar.

“I didn’t plan on much tonight either,” Ava admitted. “I thought I’d have one drink, check in with Hattie, and head home before I started making mental lists for tomorrow.” Her mouth curved. “That plan clearly had no follow-through.”

She glanced around the room once more — the familiar faces, the layered conversations, the hum of a town that knew her whether she wanted it to or not — then returned her attention to him.

“But I’m glad I stayed,” she said, quieter now, but sure. “This feels like one of those moments you’d regret editing out later. Even if you didn’t know what it was supposed to lead to.”

Her eyes met his again, warm and open, curiosity still there — but softened now by ease, by the sense that she didn’t have to rush or perform or explain herself.

“So,” she continued, voice light but sincere, “if the scene’s still rolling…”
A small, almost-smile.
“I don’t mind seeing where it goes. Even if it just stays right here for a while.”

Hattie watched his hands before she answered.

The way he nudged the salt shaker into alignment, then stilled it. The way his thumb traced that familiar, absent-minded path along her knuckles and lingered at her ring finger—never possessive, never rushed. Just there. Grounding. Like he was reminding himself of something solid after a day that had asked too much of him.

She knew that habit. She knew what it meant.

“Hey,” she said softly, cutting in only once he’d finished, voice gentle but certain. “Your day’s over.”

Her eyes lifted to his, warm and steady.

“You’re home now.”

She leaned in before he could respond, one hand rising to his jaw, and kissed him—slow, tender, unhurried. The kind of kiss that didn’t take anything, just gave. When she pulled back, her forehead rested briefly against his, her smile already back in place.

“There,” she murmured lightly. “Officially clocked out.”

She settled back into the booth beside him, still angled close, still touching. Her gaze flicked to the empty space on the table where the fries would land soon, and she couldn’t help the small, knowing smile that followed.

She almost asked how he knew.

Almost.

But the answer was obvious. He always knew. Her routines. Her comfort foods. The way fries meant settled. Safe. Evening intact.

Her attention returned to him, bright and easy now.

“My day was… busy,” she said honestly. “Not bad-busy. Just layered.”

She shifted slightly, tucking one leg under herself, fingers still laced with his.

“I was at the station most of it,” she continued. “Phones ringing nonstop. Someone needed a form I’d already sent twice. Someone else needed reassurance they didn’t actually need. A lot of ‘can you just real quick’ things that turned into half an hour.”

A soft huff of a laugh escaped her.

“There was a moment around midafternoon where I realized I’d answered the phone with the same exact sentence three times in a row and didn’t remember doing it.” She shook her head fondly. “That’s usually my sign I need air.”

Her gaze dipped briefly to the table, then lifted again.

“I took five minutes outside,” she added. “Didn’t fix anything. Didn’t solve a problem. Just stood there and breathed and reminded myself the building wouldn’t collapse if I stepped away.”

Her smile turned smaller, thoughtful—but not heavy.

“I missed being out. Missed moving. Missed you being somewhere in the same orbit today.” A beat, gentle and honest. “But it wasn’t a bad day. Just one of those days that fills you up whether you ask it to or not.”

She looked at him again, fully, warmth returning.

“And now I feel good,” she said. “Like my shoulders finally dropped. Like my brain stopped spinning.”

Her thumb brushed once over the back of his hand, affectionate and grounding.

“Happy,” she added quietly. “A little buzzed. Very excited about the fries.”

Her smile widened then—easy, unguarded.

“I’m really glad we’re here,” she said simply. “This feels right.”

The bar hummed around them—voices rising, glasses clinking, warmth pressing in—but Hattie stayed right where she was, close to him, smiling easily, ready to let the rest of the night unfold without needing anything more than this.

Miles listened all the way through.

Not with the intent to respond—just to understand. Ava had a way of speaking that invited that. Like she wasn’t filling space, just placing something down between them and letting it exist. He stayed where he was at the bar, shoulder resting easy against the wood, beer sweating slowly against his palm.

When she finished, he took a second. Let the moment breathe.

Then—gently, deliberately—he nudged the conversation somewhere lighter. Not away from meaning. Just sideways. The way you did when you didn’t want to close a door, but you also didn’t want to crowd it.

“That thing you said,” he started, glancing at her glass before looking back up, “about making mental lists for tomorrow.”

A faint smile tugged at his mouth.

“I do that too. Drives me nuts. I’ll be standing somewhere perfectly fine—beer in hand, nothing on fire—and my brain’s already lining up the next ten things I’m supposed to be doing.”

He shifted his weight, boots scuffing lightly against the floor.

“So what’s on tomorrow’s list?” he asked, casual but curious. “The real one. Not the one you tell yourself you should do.”

His attention stayed on her—on the way she held herself, on the calm that seemed to settle when she realized she didn’t have to perform here.

“And before you answer,” he added, lightly, “I’m not grading. No productivity metrics. This is a judgment-free zone.”

A beat.

“Unless you say something like ‘reorganize my entire life before noon,’” he said dryly. “Then I reserve the right to call bullshit.”

He took another sip of his beer, comfortable now, present in a way that didn’t ask for anything more than this moment at the bar—Ava beside him, the noise of Rodeo Bar rising and falling around them, the night stretching out instead of closing in.

Declan listened the way he always did when it mattered—still, intent, like every word had weight and he wasn’t about to drop a single one.

His thumb kept moving, slow and thoughtful, tracing the back of her hand as she talked. When she mentioned stepping outside, his jaw shifted just slightly, not worry exactly—more recognition. He knew that moment. The one where the air felt like the only thing keeping you upright.

“Yeah,” he said quietly when she finished, nodding once. “That tracks.”

He glanced down at the table again, fingers drifting to the condensation ring left by someone’s beer. He traced the edge of it with the pad of his finger, then flicked the moisture away, grounding himself in the small, ordinary texture of it.

“I’m glad you took the five minutes,” he added, voice low. “World’s bad about pretendin’ it’ll cave in if you don’t hold it up with both hands.”

The corner of his mouth tipped up as he looked back at her.

“And I’m real glad you’re buzzed,” he went on, easier now, Friday settling into his shoulders at last. “Means it’s officially the weekend and nobody’s askin’ either of us for anything important till Monday.”

The bar felt louder now in the best way—someone laughing too hard a few tables over, a burst of music from the jukebox shifting songs, the smell of fryer oil and beer and winter coats warming up. Declan leaned back just enough to take it in, then angled back toward her again, elbow brushing hers.

His gaze drifted past her shoulder then—casual, curious—to the bar.

He spotted Ava and Miles mid-conversation, close enough that the rest of the room seemed to fall away from them. Ava’s posture was relaxed, one elbow on the bar, chin tipped just enough to listen. Miles had that half-smile he always got when he was engaged—present, a little surprised, like he hadn’t expected the moment to land the way it had.

Declan’s brows knit faintly.

He squeezed her hand once, firm and affectionate, turning his attention back to her.

“So,” he asked, softer again, “what part filled you up the most today—the good part or the grind?”

A beat.

“And did you eat anything that wasn’t coffee?” he added, brow lifting, already knowing the answer but asking anyway. “Because I swear, every time I don’t see you till after five on a Friday, you’ve been runnin’ on caffeine and spite.”

His gaze lingered on her face—relaxed now, glowing a little, exactly how he liked her—and something eased further in his chest.

“I missed you more,” he said, simply. No drama. Just truth. “Felt like one of those days where the hours take the long way around.”

He reached for the napkin dispenser without looking, slid one free, and folded it absently into a neat square while he talked—another habit, another quiet tell.

“But this?” He nodded around them—the booth, the bar, her knee tucked under her, their hands still linked. “This is a damn good way to end a Friday.”

He leaned in a fraction, voice dropping just enough to make it theirs.

“And when those fries hit the table,” he added, eyes flicking briefly—once more—to the bar before returning to her, “I fully expect you to tell me which one’s the crispiest. I trust your judgment.”

Ava smiled—not big, not automatic. The kind that took a second to arrive, like she was deciding whether to let it.

She shifted her glass against the bar, the ice clinking softly. As she did, she reached up without thinking and tucked a loose wave of hair behind her ear, the motion easy and familiar, gold hoop catching the bar light for a brief second before settling again. It grounded her, that small, habitual gesture.

“That’s exactly it,” she said. “Standing somewhere perfectly fine and already mentally late for something that hasn’t happened yet.”

She exhaled, a small laugh under it.

“My brain is allergic to stillness. It treats it like a suggestion, not a rule.”

She leaned her elbow on the bar now, posture easing, shoulders dropping a fraction as the noise of the Rodeo Bar filled the spaces between words—laughter rising, a pool ball cracking, the low hum of a song she half-recognized.

“The real list?” she echoed. “Tomorrow I want to sleep in. Not accidentally—intentionally. No alarm. No guilt.”

A beat.

“Then coffee. At home. The slow kind,” she added. “The mug I only use on weekends. Maybe read for a bit. Something that has nothing to do with teaching anyone anything.”

She paused, glancing down at her emptying glass, then lifted two fingers slightly to catch the bartender’s attention.

“Can I get another?” she asked easily. “Same as before.”

When the bartender nodded and moved away, Ava looked back at Miles, expression open again.

“I should grade. I know that. And I probably will,” she continued. “But not first. First I want a morning where I’m not already behind.”

Her mouth curved, a little self-aware.

“And no,” she added, “I’m not reorganizing my entire life before noon. I’ve learned that lesson the hard way.”

She tipped her glass toward him slightly, a quiet toast to the idea.

“But I might convince myself that laundry counts as rest if I don’t fold it right away.”

A pause, comfortable, unhurried.

“What about you?” Ava asked, tone easy, genuinely curious. “What’s on your real list—the one you don’t announce to anyone?”

The bartender set the fresh drink down beside her a moment later, condensation already forming. Ava wrapped her fingers around it, settling back into the moment—present, ungraded, exactly where she was.

Hattie let his words settle first. She always did—let them land, let them warm her from the inside out—before she answered him.

She lifted her drink and took a slow sip, eyes never leaving his. The glass was cold, the burn soft and familiar, and when she set it back down she was smiling in that small, knowing way that meant she was about to do something affectionate and a little bit mischievous.

With her free hand, she caught his other one.

Not rushed. Not sneaky.

Just… deliberate.

She guided it down and slid it under the table, pressing his palm warmly against her thigh. The look she gave him was all softness threaded with play—I see you fidgeting, here, let me help. Her thumb brushed over his knuckles once, reassuring and teasing all at the same time.

“There,” she murmured. “You can stop pickin’ at the table now.”

His hand was steady there. Solid. Familiar. And the simple weight of it—of him—made something in her chest loosen in that way it always did.

Because that was it. That was the part that filled her up the most.
Not the productivity. Not the checking things off.
This. Being tucked into a booth with him. Hands tangled. Friday humming quietly around them like a promise kept.

She leaned back slightly, still holding his hand in place, her knee nudging his under the table.

“The best part?” she echoed, answering his earlier question. “This. Every time.” Her voice softened, honest and unguarded. “No matter how long the day is… being like this with you always fills me back up.”

She tilted her head, considering him for a second longer.

“And yes,” she added before he could say it again, smiling. “I ate today. Probably not as much as I should’ve—but I did eat. Actual food. Not just coffee and vibes.”

Right on cue, a server appeared, sliding the basket of fries onto the table with a practiced grin. The smell alone made Hattie’s eyes light up.

“Oh—perfect timing,” she said, already reaching in.

She sifted through them carefully, inspecting like it was serious business, then triumphantly plucked out the one—golden, blistered, audibly crisp—and held it out to him between her fingers.

“This one,” she declared, completely confident. “Absolute peak fry.”

She waited until he took it before finally reclaiming his hand again, fingers lacing with his easily.

Then, still half-turned toward him, she glanced past his shoulder toward the bar. She caught Ava’s eye and lifted the basket just slightly, giving her an exaggerated little nod and a grin—fries are here—before flicking her gaze briefly to Miles as well, a silent open invitation if they wanted to wander back over.

“And just so you know,” she went on casually, eyes sparkling as her attention returned fully to Declan, “a buzzed Hattie also means a dancing Hattie.”

She leaned in, lowering her voice like it was a secret meant only for him.

“So once we finish these fries, you better be ready to dance with me. I don’t make the rules—I just enforce them.”

Her smile softened again as she squeezed his hand, thumb tracing slow circles over his skin.

Miles let Ava finish without cutting in.

He stayed angled toward the bar, forearm resting against the wood, beer loose in his hand—but his attention was fully on her. On the way she talked about tomorrow like it was something she was cautiously granting herself instead of assuming she deserved. On the small pauses she took, like she was checking whether it was okay to say what she actually wanted.

He recognized that.

He watched her tuck her hair back, the ease of it, the way she settled once the new drink arrived. Not guarded. Not performing. Just… present.

Miles took a sip of his beer, then set it down, thumb catching the condensation ring it left behind. He wiped it away with the side of his hand without thinking.

“That sounds like a solid plan,” he said finally. “Sleepin’ in on purpose’s underrated.”

A corner of his mouth lifted, faint but real.

“I’m with you on the slow coffee. The kind where you don’t check your phone for a while and pretend the world’s not expectin’ anything yet.”

He shifted his weight, turning just a little more toward her now—still casual, still unforced.

“My real list?” he echoed. He thought about it for a second, eyes drifting toward the shelves behind the bar, then back to her.

“Tomorrow I want to fix the busted hinge on my back door,” he said. “It’s been squeakin’ for weeks, and I keep tellin’ myself it can wait.” A small huff of a laugh. “It can’t.”

He shrugged lightly.

“Then I might drive out past town. No destination. Just… road and music. Let my head quiet down before it starts fillin’ itself back up with noise.”

His gaze held hers—steady, open.

“And I won’t tell anyone I did any of it,” he added. “Feels like the kind of list that works better if it stays unofficial.”

He tipped his bottle toward her glass in a small, easy toast.

“Here’s to not bein’ behind tomorrow,” he said. “Even if the only thing we get right is takin’ the morning slow.”

The bar hummed around them—familiar, alive—but Miles stayed right there in the moment, comfortable with the pace, curious about where it might go without needing to push it anywhere at all.

Only then did his eyes drift—brief, peripheral—toward the booth.

Hattie had caught Ava’s eye, lifting the basket just enough, grin unmistakable. Fries are here. The universal signal. An invitation, not a summons.

Miles clocked it and then looked back to Ava instead of assuming anything.

He didn’t move. Didn’t comment. Just waited—easy, unpressured—for her to decide whether she wanted to rejoin the love birds or stay exactly where she was a little longer.

Either way felt fine.

He took another quiet sip of his beer, letting the night keep its shape.

Declan’s breath left him in a quiet, almost amused exhale the moment she took his hand and put it where she wanted it.

Not startled.
Not surprised.

Just… settled.

His palm fit there like it had been waiting for the instruction, the heat of her thigh bleeding through denim and skin, anchoring him in a way no fidget or nervous habit ever really managed. Her touch did what long days and loud rooms couldn’t—it slowed him down. His thumb moved once, instinctive and careful, tracing the faintest arc before he stilled it, respecting the line she’d drawn even as a small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured, low and easy, voice roughened just enough to sound honest. “Table officially off-limits.”

He leaned back into the booth then, shoulders loosening for real this time, spine settling against the worn vinyl like his body had finally gotten the message. The bar noise softened into something almost pleasant—the clink of glasses, the scrape of a chair, laughter rolling up from the dartboard, the jukebox sliding into a familiar, mid-tempo song that felt like every Friday night he’d ever survived.

Friday. Finally.

When she said this, he didn’t deflect it with humor. Didn’t dodge.

He nodded once, slow, eyes steady on hers. “Yeah,” he said quietly, meaning all of it. “Same for me.”

The fry appeared between them, golden and perfect, and he took it without hesitation. The crunch was sharp, satisfying. He hummed his approval around the bite, brows lifting as he chewed like the verdict mattered.

“You don’t miss,” he said, tone warm, certain. “Ever.”

His fingers tightened briefly when she laced them again, a reflex he didn’t fight, thumb resuming that familiar, absent-minded path over her knuckles—no rush, no agenda. Just contact. Just us.

He followed her glance toward the bar, eyes flicking over Ava and Miles without lingering. Noticed the easy angle of their bodies, the way conversation had drawn them closer without effort. Declan tipped his head in a casual acknowledgment, something curious sparking and then settling. He’d check in later. Right now felt… contained. Like the night had already chosen its center.

Then she said dancing.

Declan laughed under his breath, warm and real, the sound vibrating lightly where she leaned against him. He shifted closer without thinking, shoulder brushing hers, denim against denim.

“Buzzed and bossy,” he said, fondness threaded right through the tease. “That’s my favorite combination.”

He dipped his head to match her tone, voice dropping into that space meant just for her. “You know I’ll dance with you. Don’t even pretend that’s a threat.”

A beat passed. Then, with exaggerated seriousness, brows knitting just slightly—

“But I gotta warn you,” he added, “Friday-night Declan’s got exactly two moves. One’s a sway. The other’s… an enthusiastic sway.”

He squeezed her hand, eyes soft, amused, openly taken with her. “You ready to be seen with that?”

Another fry disappeared between his fingers as he leaned back again, fully at ease now, palm still warm and steady against her thigh beneath the table. The smell of salt and fryer oil mixed with her perfume and the clean, familiar scent of her skin—comfort layered on comfort.

“And hey,” he said after a moment, quieter but sure, the kind of tone he only used when he meant it, “I’m glad you’re buzzed. I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad it’s Friday.”

He glanced around once more—the crowded bar, friends within reach, food between them, Hattie exactly where she belonged—and smiled like a man who knew he’d landed somewhere good.

“Let’s finish these fries,” he said, thumb tracing one last slow circle against her hand. “Then you can drag me to the dance floor and prove you’re serious about this enforcement business.”

Ava listened the way she always did when someone was speaking from the middle of themselves — not waiting for her turn, not editing what he was saying into something else. She liked the way his list sounded. Ordinary. Chosen. The kind of things that didn’t need witnesses to matter.

“That does sound solid,” she said softly. “Sleeping in on purpose feels… rebellious in a very responsible way.”

She smiled at the thought of slow coffee, nodding once.

“I try to pretend my phone doesn’t exist for at least the first cup,” she admitted. “Sometimes it works. Sometimes I cave. But I like thinking I could win if I really tried.”

When he talked about the hinge, the drive, the music, something warm settled in her chest — recognition, maybe. Or just appreciation for the way he noticed the small things that asked to be tended to.

“That kind of list makes sense,” she said. “The kind that doesn’t get better if you explain it to anyone.”

She lifted her glass slightly when he tipped his bottle toward it.

“I’ll drink to that,” she said quietly. “Not being behind. Or at least not feeling like we are.”

The bar hummed around them — steady, familiar — and Ava felt herself relax into the moment instead of hovering just outside it.

Then she caught Hattie’s eye.

The lifted basket.
The unmistakable grin.
Fries are here.

Ava laughed under her breath, affection softening her expression immediately. She tilted her head toward the booth — I see you — then lifted her brows in a silent hold on.

She turned back to Miles, her smile lingering.

“She’s going to give me grief later,” she said lightly. “But I think Hattie will survive.”

She shifted her weight back against the bar, glass still in hand, clearly not moving just yet.

“I don’t want to break the rhythm,” she added, quieter now. “This feels… good.”

She took a small sip of her drink, eyes returning to his, unhurried.

“So,” she said, voice warm and curious, “if tomorrow’s unofficial list goes exactly the way you want it to… what song do you put on first for that drive?”

She stayed where she was.

Let the fries wait.
Let the booth hold its own gravity.

For now, this felt like the right place to be.

Hattie was already grinning before he finished that last sentence—buzzed and bossy and feeling herself in exactly the way a Friday night should allow.

“Oh, baby,” she drawled, sweet and wicked, “I don’t threaten with dancing. I deliver.”

She plucked another fry without ceremony, dunked it in ranch with authority, and popped it into her mouth like it was the punctuation on a sentence. Her eyes sparkled as she chewed, one eyebrow lifted like she was both impressed by him and amused by the idea that he thought she hadn’t already planned this entire evening’s trajectory the second he walked through the damn door.

She swallowed, licked a bit of salt off her thumb, and leaned in.

“And I have seen your enthusiastic sway,” she said, voice low and delighted. “It’s adorable. We’ll work with it. I’ll lead. You just… stand there and look tall.”

She gave his thigh a gentle squeeze under the table, her smirk tipping affectionate as it slipped into something softer.

“And for the record? Buzzed and bossy is only your second favorite combination,” she added, teasing now, voice dropping an octave as she tilted her head toward him. “Your favorite is me, bossy and wearing that sundress you like. You know the one. With the—”

She didn’t finish the sentence. Just smiled like she knew she’d already won.

Then, just as quickly, she popped upright again, free hand flinging dramatically toward the basket.

“Fries first,” she announced. “Then dancing. Then maybe—maybe—if you’re good, I’ll let you request a slow song so I can sway with you instead of around you.”

She plucked another fry, bit off half, then pointed the rest at him.

“But if it’s a Shania Twain song,” she said firmly, “I will grind on you in front of everybody in this bar. So choose wisely.”

Another fry disappeared. Her bare knee nudged against his under the table.

She was glowing now—liquid courage warm in her veins, hair falling loose over her shoulders, cheeks flushed from whiskey and happiness and Declan’s hand still steady on her thigh like it belonged there. Her whole body buzzed in the best way. The kind that made her feel wild and rooted all at once.

She leaned in close, voice dipping between them again.

“And I’m glad it’s Friday too,” she whispered, brushing her nose against his cheek before stealing a quick kiss at the corner of his mouth. “Glad you’re here. Glad I get to spend the whole damn night showing off the fact that you’re mine.”

She sat back, cocked her head with that crooked grin he always melted under, and said:

“Now eat your fries, Caldwell. You’re gonna need the energy.”

Miles liked the way she said good.

Not perfect. Not magical. Just good. Like the kind of steady you could lean against without worrying it would shift under you. He didn’t say that out loud, but it sat with him as clearly as the weight of the glass in his hand.

He watched her stay.

Not in a way that needed commentary, not like it surprised him—but he clocked it. The deliberate choice to keep her elbow on the bar, to let the fries and the booth and whatever teasing Hattie had loaded in her pocket wait a little longer.

And somehow, Ava saying she didn’t want to break the rhythm made him even more sure there was one.

His mouth curved into a small smile as he tipped his glass back again, finishing the last sip before setting the empty glass down beside hers.

“Depends on the kind of drive,” he said, voice easy, eyes still on her. “If I’m taking the back roads out toward Wexler’s Ridge, windows down, no destination? That’s a Lucinda Williams kind of morning. ‘Car Wheels on a Gravel Road.’ Slow start. Southern dust.”

A pause. Then—

“But if it’s the kind of day where I’ve got too many thoughts and not enough air? It’s Springsteen. ‘No Surrender.’ Loud. Full tank. Highway lines lookin’ like freedom.”

He shrugged, casual.

“I don’t always know which one it is until I hit the turnoff.”

His gaze didn’t wander. Not even when the jukebox flipped songs, not even when someone nearby let out a shout after a pool shot.

“I like a drive where the song finds you, not the other way around.”

A beat passed.

Then he turned the question gently back to her—not pressing, just curious.

“You got a go-to for when you want the world to quiet down?” he asked. “Or do you let shuffle decide your fate?”

His tone was playful, but his eyes stayed steady. Present. Not trying to move past the moment or stretch it into something else—just sitting in it with her, letting the space fill naturally.

Letting her know, without needing to say it, that she didn’t have to rush. The fries would wait. The booth would wait. This didn’t need to be anything more than what it already was.

Good.

Declan huffed a quiet laugh through his nose, head tipping back just enough to glance at the dark wood beams overhead, like he was steadying himself before diving in. The bar’s low hum wrapped around them—glasses clinking, a burst of laughter from the dartboard, boots scraping the floor near the door—but his focus never really left her.

“Well hell,” he said, amused and fond, eyes sliding back to her with that slow, unmistakable grin. The kind that crept in at the edges first, then settled deep. “If that’s a threat, I’m already in trouble.”

He reached for a fry at last, long fingers brushing the basket, then lifting it with mock seriousness. He bit down, crisp crunch cutting clean through the noise, and nodded once, decisively, like a man confirming a theory he’d been testing all night.

“Alright,” he went on, chewing, voice warm and easy. “Fuel acquired. I’ll admit it—you might be right. Friday version of me could use a warm-up before bein’ publicly humiliated on the dance floor.”

He wiped his fingers on a napkin, slow and absent-minded, then let his gaze wander just long enough to clock the jukebox glowing near the wall, some old country song queued up already. His mouth curved again as he looked back at her, brows lifting.

“But I gotta set one boundary,” he added lightly, leaning in a fraction. “If Shania comes on, that’s on you. I will accept my fate with dignity. Questionable rhythm, but dignity.”

His knee brushed hers under the table as he shifted closer, the movement unthinking, natural. His voice dropped then—not secretive, just quieter, meant for her alone.

“And for the record,” he said, softer now, eyes steady on hers, “I didn’t plan a damn thing tonight. Didn’t map it out. Didn’t think past the door.”

A pause. The corner of his thumb traced a small, idle arc against her leg.

“I just knew I wanted to end up right here,” he finished, simple and sure.

He reached for another fry, holding it between them for a second like an offering before taking the bite himself, amusement flickering through his eyes.

“So—finish your fries, boss lady,” he said, already shifting his weight like he was preparing to stand, hand still warm and grounding against her knee. “Soon as you’re ready, I’m up.”

Ava let a quiet second stretch between them before answering, not because she didn’t know what she wanted to say, but because she liked the way the pause felt. Her fingers traced the cool rim of her glass, following the faint line of condensation as it slid toward the bar. Around them, the room hummed — low voices, the scrape of a chair, the jukebox changing songs — but none of it pressed in. It all felt contained.

“For me, it’s The Cranberries,” she said, voice soft but grounded. “Every time.”

She smiled to herself for a moment, like she was letting him in on something small but true.

“There’s something about her voice that settles my thoughts,” she continued. “Like it knows how to hold the noise without trying to fix it. I don’t have to explain anything to it. I can just… exist.”

She shifted her weight, the edge of her cardigan brushing the bar as she leaned a fraction closer — not toward him, exactly, just deeper into the moment. Her shoulders stayed relaxed, posture easy, like she wasn’t bracing for anything.

“If I’m really trying to slow down, it’s Linger,” she added. “The kind of song that makes you stop rushing through whatever you’re doing.” A small pause, thoughtful. “And if I need to remember that things can still feel light, it’s Dreams.”

Her mouth curved again, a little wry.

“I don’t trust shuffle with my moods,” she said. “It feels irresponsible. Like letting the weather decide your plans.”

Her eyes drifted toward the booth without fully turning — just enough to catch the picture of it. Hattie animated, mid-story, hands moving. Declan already leaning in, stealing fries without apology. The basket visibly lighter than it had been moments ago. Ava’s expression softened at the sight, fondness settling in without fanfare.

Then she looked back at Miles, attention returning easily, like it hadn’t gone anywhere in the first place.

“You should come sit with us,” she said simply. “If you want to.” She didn’t rush the words or dress them up. “I’d really like that.”

She let the invitation hang there, unpressured, her fingers still curled around her glass.

A beat passed. Her tone shifted just slightly — warmer, playful now, threaded with something she didn’t bother to hide.

“And I’ll share my fries,” she added. “Which is not a casual promise.”

She lifted her glass a little, the ice chiming softly, eyes still on him — steady, open, giving him space to choose without needing to fill it.

Easy.
Unrushed.
Exactly where she meant to be.

Miles listened the way he did when someone said something that made sense—not because it was clever, or impressive, but because it was true.

The Cranberries.

He hadn’t expected that, but as soon as she said it, it clicked. Not in a superficial way—more like a line of dialogue falling into place in the middle of a film scene, the kind that didn’t need to be rewritten.

His glass was still half-full, and he rolled it slightly between his palms, the chill grounding him while his mind filed her words away with quiet precision.

Her voice.
Doesn’t try to fix the noise.
Lets me just exist.

Yeah, he thought. That’s exactly the kind of song you use to hold a moment still.

He could picture it without even trying—Ava standing in a quiet kitchen on a Sunday morning, or sitting on the floor with an untouched book in her lap, the soft haze of late afternoon coming through a curtain. Dolores O’Riordan’s voice filling the room—not to distract, not to direct. Just to be.

That was the thing about music. It wasn’t just about sound. It was scene.

“If I were scoring that,” Miles said, voice low, reflective, “I’d probably leave the camera wide. Let the room breathe. Let the light hit where it wants to. Let the music do the talking while nothing else has to.”

He looked at her again—really looked at her—and his smile was small, but real.

“Linger is good for that,” he added. “The way the strings sit underneath everything? It slows the pulse. But it never flattens it out. It’s… alive. Just quietly.”

A pause. Then, more playful now:

“And you’re right about shuffle. Total chaos agent. Every time I trust it, it jumps from something cinematic to, like, The Offspring, and suddenly I’m in a different movie without a transition.”

He let his hand drop from the glass, resting it casually on the bar.

When she said he should come sit with them, he didn’t look toward the booth. He didn’t need to. He could feel the buzz from over there. The energy. The familiarity. The comfort of people who already knew how to fit.

But her words were the part that stayed with him.

I’d really like that.

Not pushy. Not performative. Just open.

Miles leaned in a little—not invading her space, just leaning closer to the moment—and nodded once, slow.

“I’d like that too,” he said simply.

Then, as her voice shifted and the tease hit, his grin cracked a little wider.

“Oh,” he said, tone matching hers now, “sharing your fries? That’s how I know you mean it.”

He stood then, easy and unhurried, one hand brushing the bar before reaching for his glass to bring it with him. He let her lead the way if she wanted, or not—he didn’t mind either way.

But one thing was certain: he was following her back to the booth.

Not because he needed to be in the middle of someone else’s story.
Because this—right now—felt like the beginning of his own.

Hattie grinned so hard it nearly tipped into laughter.

“God, you’re hot when you accept your fate,” she said breezily, like it wasn’t a complete assault on her heart every time he looked at her like that—soft grin, warm eyes, like she was gravity and he didn’t mind falling. She popped a fry into her mouth like punctuation, chewing as she raised a brow at him. “Questionable rhythm or not.”

She leaned into his space a little more, leg pressed against his now under the table, her knee braced like she might get up or might crawl into his lap—either felt plausible in her current state. Buzzed and bossy. Dangerously affectionate. End-of-week euphoric.

“Not planning past the door is actually very on-brand for you,” she said, pointing at him with a fry. “But I gotta say… ten outta ten landing.”

She took a long sip of her drink—chilled, fizzy, all burn and bite—and set it down with a satisfying clink before twisting toward him, both elbows resting on the table now like she was getting serious.

“Let me make something very clear,” she said, voice dropping low and mock-grave. “If Man! I Feel Like a Woman comes on, you’re not just dancing. You’re performing. Hands up. Hips moving. Crowd participation level commitment.”

She leaned in even closer, her face only inches from his now, eyes glittering. “I’m talking spin moves, Caldwell. I want theatrics.”

Then she kissed him—quick, firm, ridiculously fond—and pulled back like she hadn’t just branded his soul in the middle of the Rodeo Bar.

“I’m not gonna let you stand around like a pretty little paperweight while I do all the heavy lifting,” she added, grabbing another fry. “This is a team sport.”

Before she could grab another, something in her periphery tugged her attention—just enough to glance past Declan’s shoulder.

Her eyes caught on Ava first, approaching with that familiar walk—composed but unrushed, a quiet kind of intent that always made Hattie smile. Miles was just behind her, tall and steady, still holding his drink, still watching Ava like whatever she was saying mattered more than the room.

Hattie’s grin softened, affection threading through the mischief already stitched into her mood.

“Look who finally came back to the cool kids,” she said, half to Declan, half to herself, already shifting in her seat to make space. Her eyes sparkled as she tossed one last fry into her mouth. “Took ’em long enough.”

Ava slowed just a fraction as she reached the booth, letting the moment settle before she stepped into it—the hum of the bar, Hattie’s laughter still bright at the edges, Miles standing there with that quiet, deliberate calm like he’d already decided this was where his night was going.

“Well,” she said, a dry smile tugging at her mouth, “I see things escalated responsibly.”

She slid into the booth first, easing in without hurry, shrugging out of her coat and tucking it beside her. Then, without ceremony, she reached for her basket of fries, lifting it from the far edge of the table and setting it down between her and Miles with a soft, intentional thump.

“There,” Ava said, glancing up at him. “Shared resources.”

She took one fry for herself, then nudged the basket a little closer to his side with her fingertips—an invitation disguised as logistics.

As Miles slid in beside her, the space tightened in that subtle way booths always did. His arm brushed the back of the seat, his knee close enough to register. When he reached for the fries, her hand moved at the same time—unplanned, unhurried.

Their fingers brushed.

Just knuckles, barely there. Warm. Real.

Ava didn’t pull away immediately. Didn’t make a thing of it either. She just let the contact exist for the half-second it wanted, eyes still forward, a small smile curving like she felt it too.

“See?” she said lightly, finally glancing at him. “Team sport.”

She picked up her drink, took a sip, then leaned back into the booth, shoulder settling comfortably close to his. Not crowding. Not retreating. Just… present.

Then looked over at Miles—softer now, quieter beneath the noise of the bar.

“I’m really glad you came over,” Ava said. “It feels better with you here.”

She reached for another fry, deliberately slow this time, letting her fingers skim his again like it was nothing at all.

And somehow, everything.

Ava leaned back into the booth, the vinyl warm against her shoulder, the low hum of the bar settling around them like a held breath. She let the moment with Miles fade naturally—no rush, no retreat—then turned her attention fully back to Hattie.

Her brow lifted as she took Hattie in: the grin, the loose limbs, the fearless sparkle that only showed up once the week had finally let go.

Ava smiled, slow and knowing.

“So,” she said, voice light but pointed, “has the liquid courage officially sunk in yet?”

She tipped her head, eyes dancing. “Or are you still in the warm-up round where everything feels like a very good idea?”

She reached across the table to tap Hattie’s glass with one finger, gentle but unmistakable.

“Because,” Ava added dryly, “based on the choreography threats and the public displays of affection, I’m thinking we’ve crossed at least one threshold.”

Her gaze softened, affectionate underneath the teasing.

“And I say this with love,” she finished.

Declan watched it all with the easy patience of someone who knew exactly where he stood—and liked it there.

Ava’s voice cut through the hum of the bar, teasing but precise, and he felt Hattie’s reaction before he saw it. The way her shoulders lifted. The way she leaned just a little more into the table like she was bracing for impact or applause. Same difference.

He smiled into his glass.

Liquid courage, huh.

He turned his head slightly, just enough to catch Hattie’s eye, one brow lifting in quiet confirmation. Go on, the look said. Tell her.

Because if anyone was going to clock Hattie’s emotional blood alcohol level correctly, it was Ava. Always had been.

Declan’s arm rested easy along the back of the booth, close enough that Hattie could lean into it if she wanted—close enough that she already was, her leg still pressed against his under the table like she’d forgotten there was any other option. He didn’t move it. Didn’t need to. Let her anchor where she chose.

“She’s not wrong,” he said finally, voice low, amused, pitched just for the table. “There was a moment—somewhere between the fries and the Shania ultimatum—where I realized we were no longer in ‘casual drinks’ territory.”

He tipped his glass slightly toward Ava, a half-toast, half-confession.

“I’d say we’re solidly in bold choices, zero regrets land.”

His gaze slid back to Hattie then, softer now, warmer. The grin that followed wasn’t flashy—just fond. Grounded. Certain.

“And for the record,” he added, leaning in a fraction, “I support the confidence. Even if it does come with mandatory spin moves.”

Under the table, he shifted just enough to press his knee into hers—a quiet, steadying thing. Not to rein her in. Just to remind her he was right there.

Declan glanced once more around the booth—Ava settled, Miles easing in like he belonged, the night knitting itself together in that rare, unforced way—and felt it settle in his chest.

Yeah.

This was good.

Then he lifted his glass again, smirk returning.

“But,” he added lightly, “if she tries to start a dance circle before midnight, I’m blaming the bartender.”

Miles didn’t say much at first.

He didn’t need to. Ava’s dry smile and soft thump of the fry basket had said more than enough—shared resources, shared moment. As he reached the booth, he gave Declan a casual pat on the shoulder—quick, familiar, the kind of wordless acknowledgment guy friends pass like currency—before rounding the edge and sliding in beside Ava.

The vinyl creaked under his weight as he settled back, one hand curling around his still-cold glass while the other reached, instinctively, for a fry.

Their hands met halfway.

Just barely—just knuckles. But there was something about it. Like a line drawn without a ruler. Uneven, but intentional. He felt her fingers linger for a beat too long to be accidental, and for once, he didn’t overthink it. Didn’t splice the moment apart like a frame-by-frame breakdown. He just let it exist.

Ava’s voice curled toward him again, soft and sure, and he caught the curve of her mouth as she said it: It feels better with you here.

That line hummed low in his chest.

He gave a small, wry nod in response, something that translated loosely to me too, but he didn’t interrupt the rhythm of her next reach for a fry. When her fingers skimmed his again—deliberately, this time—he let the touch register in full before following her gaze across the table.

Hattie.

Laughter halfway out of her mouth, her drink catching the light as Ava tapped it. She looked loose-limbed and wild in the way only someone who’d worked hard all week could be. Miles didn’t know her well—just enough to recognize the difference. He’d seen her quieter. Guarded. Less spark, more strategy.

Tonight wasn’t that.

He let his shoulder rest more comfortably along the booth back, his knee angled slightly toward Ava without pushing, and listened.

Ava’s commentary was light but sharp, as usual. She had that uncanny ability to land a point between your ribs and make you thank her for it. Miles watched the way she aimed it across the table, equal parts affection and accuracy, and then watched how Declan took it.

That’s new, he thought.

He’d never seen Declan like this. Not performative. Not posturing. Just… here. Hand loose on the back of the booth, attention zeroed in like the rest of the world could wait. There was something tethered and steady about him tonight—like he wasn’t holding onto anything that might slip away.

It wasn’t dramatic. Wasn’t loud.

But Miles noticed patterns.

And the pattern here said anchor.

He glanced at Ava again—how relaxed she looked beside him, how easily she folded into the moment without needing to steer it—and felt something settle in his chest, slow and deliberate.

He leaned in a little closer, elbow just brushing hers.

“Well,” he said quietly, his voice pitched for her, not the table. “I gotta admit… it’s pretty good theater.”

Then, with a subtle smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, he nudged the fry basket an inch closer to her side.

“But I think we’ve got the better view.”

Hattie didn’t even try to look innocent.

She raised her brows at Ava’s mock diagnosis, smirk curving just a touch smug as she sipped from her glass again—slow and unrepentant.

Then she turned toward Declan, hand splayed over her chest in exaggerated offense.

“Okay, rude,” she said, flicking her gaze between them. “Like this isn’t entirely his fault.”

She reached over and poked Declan in the chest with her finger, right over where his department logo stretched across his shirt. “Someone wasn’t at the station today to force-feed me a granola bar and yell at me to drink water like I’m one of the rookie probies.” She tossed a fry into her mouth, talking around the bite. “That’s on you, Caldwell. Neglect.”

She turned back to Ava with a sigh, grinning like she was just barely holding herself together. “So yes, I am buzzed, belligerent, and one good Shania verse away from commanding the dance floor like a Broadway stage. But honestly?” She shrugged. “That feels like growth.”

She popped another fry between her teeth, chewing happily, then squinted across the table with playful accusation.

“Also?” she added, pointing now at Ava, “Where do you get off abandoning me at the mercy of this one—” she bumped her knee against Declan’s with faux exasperation “—so you could go cozy up at the bar and flirt with tall, quiet, and broody over there like that’s a normal Friday night move?”

Her eyes narrowed, the question more amused than sharp. “How do you two even know each other? And why am I just learning about it now? You’ve been keeping secrets, Everett.”

She reached for another fry but didn’t eat it—just waved it for emphasis, her face all mock betrayal.

“I trusted you. And you left me unsupervised.”

Then she leaned into Declan’s side, stage whispering loud enough for Ava to hear, “You leave one woman in a bar with mood lighting and a low alcohol tolerance…”

She trailed off, letting the scandal hang, before grinning at Ava again with unfiltered affection.

“Honestly though?” she added, voice dropping just a bit. “Good call. He looks like he knows his way around a jukebox and a long stare.”

She waggled her brows. “Certified heartthrob. Would flirt with—if I hadn’t already locked down the only ten outta ten in the building.”

Ava let out a soft huff of a laugh, the kind that lived somewhere between you caught me and you’re not wrong, and leaned back just enough to look at Hattie properly. The bar lights caught the rim of her glass as she lifted it, not to drink yet—just to give herself a second.

“First of all,” she said, tone dry but warm, “I did not abandon you. I strategically redistributed myself.”

Her eyes flicked to Declan, then back to Hattie. “There’s a difference. Important one.”

She reached for the fry Hattie was waving like a legal exhibit and plucked it neatly from her fingers before Hattie could react, popping it into her mouth with a small, satisfied nod.

“And second,” Ava went on, chewing thoughtfully, “you were supervised. You had fries. You had Caldwell. You were never in danger.”

Her gaze slid—inevitably—back to Miles.

He was close. Closer than she usually let people get this fast. His elbow brushed hers, his knee angled toward her like it belonged there, like he’d always been sitting at this table. The quiet steadiness of him pressed in on her awareness in a way that didn’t feel intrusive—it felt… grounding. Like the room made more sense with him occupying that space.

She didn’t rush to look away.

“We know each other,” Ava said finally, answering the question without answering it all the way. Her voice stayed even, but there was something softer threading through it now. “Because sometimes you start a conversation with someone and realize you’re speaking the same language.”

She tilted her head slightly, eyes still on Miles for a beat longer than necessary, a small, almost private smile tugging at her mouth.

“And then you don’t really feel like going back to shouting over the noise.”

She glanced back at Hattie, amusement returning full force. “Also, for the record? I didn’t go cozy up. We talked about music. And lists. And why shuffle is an untrustworthy menace.”

A pause.

“…Okay, maybe I went a little cozy.”

She felt it then—that low, steady warmth in her chest that hadn’t been there an hour ago. The ease of his presence. The way he listened without trying to steer. The fact that when their hands had brushed, he hadn’t flinched or turned it into a thing—he’d just let it be what it was. That mattered more than she wanted to admit.

Ava shifted slightly in the booth, shoulder settling more comfortably against his, not hiding it now.

“And yes,” she added, meeting Hattie’s eyes again, softer this time, “he does know his way around a jukebox. And a long stare.”

Her lips curved, fond and honest.

“I like him,” she said simply. No qualifier. No defense. Just the truth, placed gently on the table like the fry basket had been.

Then, lighter again—because Ava was still Ava—she lifted her brows at Hattie.

“But if you think that means you get to interrogate me while three drinks deep, you’re wildly overestimating your authority.”

She tipped her glass toward her friend, affection bright in her eyes.

“And FYI? I would absolutely leave you unsupervised again. You’re thriving.”

Declan huffed a quiet laugh into his glass, shaking his head as he listened to the exchange bounce around the table like it had found its natural rhythm.

“Wow,” he said finally, tone dry but unmistakably fond. “I leave the station for one night and suddenly I’m both a negligent caregiver and an accessory to emotional espionage.”

He glanced sideways at Hattie, eyes warm, mouth tipped into that half-smile that only showed up when she was being exactly herself—loud, fearless, glittering at the edges.

“For the record,” he added, nudging her knee gently with his own under the table, “I absolutely told you to drink water. You chose chaos instead. That’s not on me.”

His attention shifted across the table then, settling briefly on Ava and Miles—not in a territorial way, not suspicious. Just observant. Measuring the temperature of the room the way he always did.

He caught the way Ava had angled herself toward Miles now. Not dramatic. Not performative. Just… aligned. The kind of alignment that didn’t happen unless it felt right.

Declan lifted his brows slightly, impressed despite himself.

“Huh,” he said, mostly to himself. Then, louder, with a faint smirk, “Okay. I see it.”

He tipped his glass toward Miles in a casual, easy gesture. “Welcome to the booth. Fair warning—once you sit down, Hattie will attempt to choreograph your entire night.”

Then back to Hattie, softer now, quieter under the humor:

“And before you say it—yes. You’re buzzing. Yes. You’re glowing. And no, I’m not stopping you.”

His arm stayed loose along the back of the booth, steady and sure, letting her lean in as much as she wanted.

“But,” he added, amusement flickering, “if Shania comes on and you try to start a dance circle, I reserve the right to claim plausible deniability.”

He glanced once more around the table—Ava settled, Miles easing in like he belonged, the night humming at that perfect pitch between chaos and calm—and felt that quiet satisfaction settle in his chest.

Declan shifted closer without making a show of it, the movement instinctive, like his body already knew where it wanted to be. His arm curved more deliberately along the back of the booth, settling behind Hattie’s shoulders, his thumb finding that familiar place where her arm met his chest. She fit there like muscle memory.

He dipped his head, brushing his mouth near her temple—not quite a kiss, but close enough that she’d feel it. Close enough to say I’m here without interrupting her shine.

“You know,” he murmured, just for her, voice low and steady beneath the noise of the bar, “you don’t actually need liquid courage. You come pre-installed with chaos.”

His hand slid down, warm and grounding, resting at her waist. A quiet anchor. Not to slow her down—never that—but to let her know she didn’t have to float on her own.

Aloud, he added with a small grin, “But I do appreciate the commitment to the bit.”

He glanced down at her then, really looked—at the flushed cheeks, the spark in her eyes, the way she laughed with her whole body when she let herself. Pride bloomed in his chest, soft but undeniable.

“You had a hell of a week,” he said, gentler now. “You get to be loud. You get to be reckless. You get to dance like the bar is a Broadway stage.”

His thumb traced a slow, absent-minded line against her side, affectionate and unhurried.

“And if anyone gives you a hard time about it,” he added, lifting his glass slightly, “they answer to me.”

He leaned in, pressed a kiss this time—brief, sure, full of intent—right to her hairline, then pulled back just enough to catch her eye.

“Besides,” he said, smirk returning, “I kind of like watching you take over a room. Reminds me why I followed you into this one in the first place.”

Under the table, his knee nudged hers again, a quiet promise tucked into the gesture.

“Go on,” he said softly. “Show ‘em how it’s done.”

Hattie squinted at Ava across the table, eyes narrowing with unmistakable intent.

It wasn’t aggressive. It wasn’t even subtle. It was that classic oh we will absolutely be talking about this later when the boys aren’t around look. The kind of look that came with a mental sticky note and an entire follow-up conversation planned out in her head already—one that would probably involve snacks, flopped limbs across a couch, and three different inflection points on the word “sooo?”

She didn’t press it now. But she’d be circling back.

No doubt.

Her attention shifted then, casual but deliberate, as she turned her gaze on Miles.

She took a slow moment to really look at him. Not in the flirty, teasing way she might with a new acquaintance, and not even in the suspicious way of someone trying to sniff out a red flag. No, this was something else—something older. Protective. Discerning. Quietly loyal in a way that only showed up after years of watching people fall short and deciding not to let it happen again if she could help it.

She already knew from Declan that Miles was solid. Kind. One of the good ones. And in the couple times they’d hung out because of Declan, she’d never once gotten a whiff of ego or agenda. But Ava? Ava was hers. Which meant good wasn’t enough.

He had to be good for her.

Hattie let the moment settle, let her instincts click into place like a compass realigning. And then, without saying a word, she gave the tiniest nod to herself.

Okay. Fine. She didn’t hate it.

And then—just like that—her whole face softened as her gaze landed on Declan.

It always did.

God, it was ridiculous how easy it still was to look at him and forget that anything else in the world was even happening. Even in the middle of a bar, surrounded by laughter and lights and music, her attention found him like a magnet. Like coming home.

He didn’t ask her to shrink. Never had. In fact, he was the reason she’d started taking up space again.

College in Oregon had made her louder, bolder, braver—but Declan? Declan was the reason she’d let her chaos back out of the box. Because with him, it felt safe again. It felt like she could laugh too hard and dance too wild and make questionable drink choices, and still end up anchored. Still end up held.

And speaking of…

Her brows arched as she poked him in the chest again, this time with far less accusation and far more playful warning.

“If Shania comes on,” she said, voice low but loaded, “I want you to understand something, babe. There will be no deniability. You chose to sit next to me. You knew what you were signing up for.”

She grinned wickedly. “Don’t even think about pretending you weren’t warned.”

Her drink found its way to her lips again, and only when it was nearly gone did she blink, realize—

“Oh my god,” she muttered under her breath. “How is this my third?”

She hadn’t meant to drink that much. Not really. She’d only planned to have one. Maybe two. Just enough to take the edge off the week and make the lights feel a little warmer.

But sometimes the fun and the night just… got away from you.

Still. Maybe it was time to slow down. Hydrate. Touch some bread or something.

Or—

Dance.

Her eyes lit up like someone had flipped a switch, and she turned back toward Ava and Miles with the kind of mischievous glint that usually preceded regrettable karaoke or impromptu conga lines.

“Alright,” she announced, scooting forward and giving Declan’s thigh a pat. “Enough calling me out for being delightfully over-served and emotionally liberated.”

She looked at Ava, narrowing her eyes in mock-seriousness.

“You knew better than to leave me in the care of that one,” she said, jerking a thumb toward Declan with a dramatic flair. “That’s not safe. That’s a gateway to tequila and bad decisions with excellent arms.”

She turned toward Miles next, grin widening— “And you—you enabled it by showing up all calm and handsome like this was not a threat to public order.”

She shook her head fondly.

“You’re both on notice.”

Then, her fingers curled around Declan’s wrist, warm and certain, and she pulled him with her—a grin blooming that could’ve lit the whole bar.

“Let’s go, firefighter,” she said, already backing toward the dance floor with her drink high in one hand and her love for him written all over her face. “It’s Shania season, and I’m not about to waste a perfectly good buzz.”

And with that, she spun toward the music, hair bouncing, laughter trailing behind her like a glittering ribbon. A storm wrapped in sunshine. Reckless. Radiant.

His.