Tide & Ember
 

To be renamed and edited, I'm lazy

The bar pulsed low with golden lamplight and lazy guitars, the kind of place that let you feel like a secret instead of a spectacle. Violet hadn’t meant to stay long — just drop in, say hi, maybe flirt a little too close to the line. Again.

She’d dressed like she wasn’t trying: high-waisted dark jeans that hugged in all the right places, a silky rust-colored camisole with a half-tuck, and a soft denim jacket cuffed at the sleeves. Just enough rings to catch the light. Just enough lip gloss to pretend she wasn’t stalling in her car for ten minutes before walking in.

Her heels clicked softly over the worn floorboards as she made her way to the bar, already aware of the way the air changed when he noticed her. She didn’t look. Not yet. Let him look first.

The crowd was mellow tonight — a few regulars, a couple tourists sunburned and happy, a man at the jukebox pressing buttons like they meant something. She rested her hand on the bar’s edge, letting her fingers trail over the grain of the wood, old and smooth from years of elbows and stories.

She leaned forward to say something — just to tease, maybe ask what kind of cocktail he’d make for a girl who’s not supposed to stay — when it happened.

A sudden, clumsy splash.

Cold. Sticky. Down the front of her silk top.

She gasped, half-laugh, half-growl, jerking back as the amber drink soaked into rust-colored fabric. The ice slid down between her skin and the camisole, and she swore under her breath as she tried, in vain, to blot it with a napkin someone handed her.

“Are you—ugh, I’m fine,” she muttered quickly, too aware of the way her top now clung to her ribs. She stepped back from the bar, one arm instinctively crossing her chest, the other still gripping the useless napkin like it might solve something.

She didn’t meet his eyes yet. She couldn’t. Not with this much chest on display and this much pride slipping between her fingers like melted ice.

Of course this happened here. Of course it was him behind the bar when it did.

And of course, when he rounded the counter with that maddening half-smirk — towel in hand, mischief in his eyes — she felt heat bloom under her skin that had nothing to do with the drink.

He felt her before he saw her.

Not in some magical, stars-aligned kind of way—just that specific jolt of awareness he always got when Violet Thomas walked into Tide & Ember. Like his whole body clocked her before his brain could even catch up.

He looked up—and yeah. There she was.

Dark jeans. Rust-colored silk top. Denim jacket. Her rings caught the low light, her hair was up, her gloss was subtle but dangerous. Same Violet. The one who sat at the far corner of the bar after closing. Who stole fries off his plate like she paid rent on them. Who always asked how his day was and actually listened when he answered.

She didn’t look at him right away. She never did. That was part of the dance.

They’d been friends for two years. Real friends.

The kind who knew each other’s bad habits and favorite drinks. The kind who texted you up? when they didn’t mean sex, just needed someone to talk to. The kind who could laugh too loud, fight a little too honestly, and still end up sharing a basket of garlic fries like it never happened.

But somewhere along the way, he’d gone from friendly to helplessly, pathetically in love with her, and he’d been trying to keep that locked down ever since.

She didn’t need complications. She needed steady. And Ian—well, he was still figuring out what kind of man he was.

Still, tonight, she looked like something out of a dream.

And then—disaster.

A drink spilled. Loud. Sudden. The splash hit her full-force—ice, whiskey, everything. Her silk top clung immediately. She gasped, arms jerking up. And Ian’s brain flatlined.

“Shit—don’t move. Stay right there.”

He was around the bar before he could even think, towel already in hand.

“Here,” he said, pressing it into her hands. “Towel. Fresh from the dryer like… Tuesday. Which is basically sterile, right?”

Her hand brushed his as she took it. Static shot straight up his spine.

“You good? No glass involved? Just a surprise whiskey bath and emotional damage?”

He grinned. Couldn’t help it. Even soaking wet and clearly pissed, she was still Violet.

“You want me to fight someone? Because I will. I’m not saying I’d win, but I’ll go down swinging.”

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.

“I was literally about to make you something dramatic. Something citrusy and overly complicated. Y’know, like you.”

Beat.

“Kidding. Mostly.”

He gestured toward the back room. “Also, I’ve got a flannel in the office. It’s dry. Smells like cedar and one bad camping trip. But it’s clean. And big enough to wear over your pride.”

Then, finally, her eyes met his—and even after all this time, it still knocked the wind out of him a little.

“You’re staying, right?” he asked, voice lower now. Warmer. “Because I’ve got a new drink idea. And it’s not the same when you’re not here to make fun of the name.”

Because the truth was—he didn’t just want her to stay.

He always wanted her to stay.

Even when he couldn’t say it.

She hated how good the towel felt. Warm. Familiar. Like him.

Violet pressed it to her chest, trying to keep her dignity from soaking through the silk. She could feel the top clinging tighter by the second, could feel heat rising under her skin — part embarrassment, part awareness. And part something she wasn’t ready to name.

Of course he had a flannel in the back. Of course he offered it with that crooked smile and stupid-soft voice like he hadn’t just short-circuited her ability to make rational decisions.

She should go.

She should go.

This wasn’t a good idea, any of it — staying, changing into his clothes, letting the air between them thrum like this. She couldn’t keep playing with fire just because it kept the cold out.

But she didn’t move.

Not until he said it.
“You’re staying, right?”
Like it was casual. Like it wasn’t everything.

She sighed, the sound quiet and betraying. Her hand still clutched the towel to her chest, but her voice came out lighter than she felt.
“Only because I want to make fun of that drink name.”

And just like that, she turned and headed toward the back.


---

The office smelled like cedarwood, printer paper, and Ian.

She shut the door behind her gently, locking it out of habit more than necessity. The flannel was hanging off the back of his chair — navy and pine green, sleeves rolled, the fabric soft from too many washes. She peeled off her jacket first, then the top, wincing as the cool air hit her damp skin.

His flannel was definitely too big. It slipped past her collarbones and hung open like it belonged to someone she woke up next to — which, notably, she never had.

Yet.

Violet eyed herself in the tiny mirror above the desk. Then she got to work. She rolled the sleeves tighter, popped the first few buttons and knotted the hem at her waist. Her damp camisole got balled up and shoved into her purse.

She didn’t want to look like she was drowning in him.

She wanted to look like she’d stolen something and planned to keep it.

She paused, hand on the door, letting herself breathe for a second. Letting herself think about Ian. Not the friend version. The one who stocked her favorite wine and knew her Sunday playlist. The one who always stood a little too close, always looked at her like he knew exactly where she was broken and didn’t mind. The one who made it hard to leave, even when she knew she should.

Violet shut that thought down.

She opened the door.


---

The low hum of the bar greeted her like a tide coming back in — warm, inviting, and just loud enough to make things feel easy again.

She returned to her spot at the bar and dropped her jacket on the stool beside her, casually slipping back into the buzz of soft laughter and clinking glasses.

Ian looked up. His gaze dragged across her — flannel, knotted, sleeves rolled — and something flickered behind his eyes.

She tilted her head. “So,” she said, resting her elbows on the bar. “Tell me about this tragic citrus masterpiece you were about to serve me before I was personally attacked by whiskey.”

She was smiling when she said it.

Because even if she couldn’t stay forever, she could stay tonight.

And for now, that was enough.

The office door creaked open.

Ian looked up, just out of habit—and forgot what he was doing mid-wipe.

Violet stepped out into the soft light of Tide & Ember like she hadn’t just unraveled him in thirty seconds flat.

She was wearing his flannel.

Navy and pine green, sleeves rolled, hem knotted at her waist. Loose in all the right places, but intentional—like she hadn’t just thrown it on, like she’d styled it that way. Like she knew exactly what it would do to him.

He watched her walk back to the bar like it was nothing. Like the air between them hadn’t just shifted into something thicker, warmer, impossible to name. His mouth went dry. His chest pulled tight.

He didn’t say anything at first. He couldn’t.

Then she dropped her jacket on the stool beside her and slid into her usual seat, elbows on the bar like she owned it.

“So,” she said, with that too-casual tilt of her head. “Tell me about this tragic citrus masterpiece you were about to serve me before I was personally attacked by whiskey.”

She was smiling. Like she hadn’t just knocked the wind out of him. Like the flannel she was wearing didn’t already smell like home.

Ian blinked once, twice, then forced himself to breathe.

He reached for the shaker, just to give his hands something to do.

“I mean, it was gonna be dramatic,” he said, tone easy, fingers moving on autopilot. “Blood orange. Basil. Bitters. A little unnecessary smoke, obviously. Garnish probably would’ve had its own existential crisis.”

He met her eyes briefly, and yeah—there it was. That flicker. That quiet, unsaid thing they never touched but never fully avoided either.

“I was gonna call it ‘Almost,’” he added, watching her reaction. “Or maybe ‘Don’t Read Into This.’ Depends how reckless you’re feeling tonight.”

He poured the drink, hands steadier than his heart, and slid it across the bar toward her.

Then leaned in, not too close—just enough.

“You look good, by the way,” he said softly. Crooked smile, voice warm. “Better in that flannel than I ever did.”

She smirked—sharp, quick—and tossed it right back.

“Don’t get used to it.”

He laughed, but it came out quieter than it should’ve. More real.

He didn’t say how much he already was.

Didn’t say how dangerous it felt to see her like that. Warm and soft and still here.

Didn’t say he wasn’t sure how to go back to normal after this.

He just picked up the next glass and started rinsing it.

Because if she was staying—even just tonight—he wanted to remember every second of it.

The drink was beautiful, of course. He always did that—hid intention behind aesthetics, emotion behind garnish. Glass slick with condensation, deep orange fading to amber like a sunset that couldn't decide whether to stay or disappear.

She didn’t reach for it right away.

Instead, she traced the rim with her finger, her eyes skating across the bar like she wasn’t thinking too hard. Like her heartbeat hadn’t hitched when he said Almost.

Because wasn’t that what this was?

Almost something. Almost more. Always almost.

She finally picked it up and took a sip.

It hit like summer in reverse — bright first, then complicated. Sweet and sharp, grounded by something herbal and unexpected. A drink with too much personality to pretend it didn’t mean anything. Just like the man who made it.

She licked her bottom lip and set the glass down slow. Didn’t look at him yet. Let the moment stretch.

“It’s good,” she said, voice light. “Dangerously so.”

She rolled the glass between her hands, eyes flicking up to his just long enough to land the blow. “But Almost feels a little too… self-aware.”

He tilted his head at her, already smiling like he knew she was about to twist the knife in that casually elegant way she always did.

She leaned in slightly, just enough for him to catch the warm edge in her voice. Just enough to let it feel like a secret.

“You should call it Stay Awhile,” she said softly. “Sounds friendlier. Still a trap.”

Their eyes locked.

She didn’t say what she meant.

Didn’t say that’s what you are to me, you know.
Didn’t say I keep coming back here like I don’t already know better.
Didn’t say if I stay too long, I won’t leave at all.

Instead, she tipped her head, took another sip, and let the burn settle in her chest.

Because if this was going to unravel, she wanted to be the one holding the thread.

She didn’t touch the drink right away.

Ian didn’t expect her to. Violet was never in a rush. She moved like someone who’d spent years learning how to hold power in stillness. How to make you wait for the thing you already wanted.

She just traced the rim, slow and idle, like she wasn’t thinking too hard. But he knew better. She always thought too hard. So did he.

He watched her fingers, her eyes, the way she looked at everything but him.

And then, finally, she lifted the glass.

He tracked every second of it—every beat between her mouth and that first sip. His drink. His offering.

She tasted it like she meant to ruin him.

And it worked.

Ian leaned on the bar, arm braced against the wood like it was the only thing holding him together. He didn’t say anything until she set the glass back down, slow, like it deserved a soft landing.

He cleared his throat, smiling before he could stop himself. Not big. Not cocky. Just… honest.

“Too much?” he asked, voice low, a little warm. “I know the basil’s bold. I panicked.”

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Her eyes flicked up, just once. That was the answer.

He let out a soft laugh. “God, that look. I should bottle that and pour it over ice.”

Then she tilted her head just slightly, and something about it made his heart skip—not in that big, dramatic way. In the quieter way. The kind that sticks.

He watched her roll the glass between her hands like she was trying to keep it—or maybe herself—steady. Then she leaned in. Barely. But enough.

And now his voice had to stay level.

“I was gonna call it Almost,” he said.

A beat.

He felt it shift the second he said it. The air between them changed. Thicker. Honest. Too honest.

He softened. Let the teasing drop just a little.

“But maybe that hits too close to home, huh?”

Still nothing from her lips. Just those eyes. That stillness.

Then she took another sip—slower this time—and leaned back, letting it settle.

And that was somehow worse. Or better. Or both.

He picked up the shaker again, needing something in his hands.

“Round two?” he asked gently, already reaching for the bottle. “Same thing, different name.”

He didn’t look up when he said it.

“Something like… Stay Awhile.”

He poured without waiting for an answer.

Because some things don’t need to be said to be understood.

And if this was going to come apart, he figured—
She might as well be drinking something true when it did.

Her lips curved before she could stop them. Not a smile exactly. Something sharper. A tilt of amusement. A flicker of disbelief. The kind of expression that said: Really? Without needing the word.

He said it like it was his idea.
Stay Awhile.

She leaned back in her stool, flannel draped soft over her shoulders, the glass resting lightly between her fingers.

Of course he poured another without asking. Of course he said it like he’d come up with it. Like she hadn’t just handed him the name with a silver garnish and a smirk.

She didn’t call him out right away.

That wasn’t her style.

She just let the moment sit for a second. Let him feel her watching. Let him hear the silence stretch.

Then—dry as sea salt and twice as dangerous—she said:

“Oh, you were gonna call it that?”

Her eyebrow arched, perfectly measured.

“That’s wild. I could’ve sworn I just said it thirty seconds ago. Out loud. With my mouth.”

She took another sip. Deliberate. Like punctuation.

“And now it’s yours?”

Her tone wasn’t mean. It never was. It didn’t need to be.

It was just Violet. Cool on the outside. Fire underneath. A slow burn that never quite gave itself permission to ignite.

She set the glass down gently, letting her fingers tap once against the side.

“It’s cute though,” she added, voice lower. “You taking credit for things that didn’t start with you.”

The words landed softer than they could’ve. But not soft enough to miss the meaning. Not with him.

Her gaze lingered just a second too long before she looked away, like she hadn’t just peeled back one quiet layer between them and left it there, exposed.

Then, just as quickly, she exhaled and shook her head like it didn’t matter.

Like none of this was getting to her.

Even though it was.

Even though the second glass tasted sweeter.

Even though she was still wearing his flannel.

Even though she hadn’t actually decided when—or if—she was leaving.

He didn’t flinch.

Not right away.

But God, her voice—cool and clipped, precise as ever—landed like a sting wrapped in silk.

“Oh, you were gonna call it that?”

Ian swallowed, mouth already dry.

She was smiling, sort of. That curved-lip thing she did when she was half-teasing, half-daring him to get defensive. And yeah, okay—she had a point. He’d stolen the name. Or borrowed it. Or just wanted to hear her say it again in that voice, because the second the words left her lips, they’d stuck in his chest like they’d always belonged there.

He didn’t look away. Just braced his forearms on the bar and met her gaze like he wasn’t unraveling.

“Yeah,” he said, soft but shameless. “I was.”

He let the moment breathe.

“I mean, not officially. Yet. I was workshopping it. In my head. For the last… I don’t know. Thirty seconds.”

Her eyes flicked up, sharp and unreadable, and he grinned, crooked and unapologetic.

“You handed me the title,” he added, “but I made the drink. That’s collaboration, right?”

She tapped her glass once, deliberate.

Then came the line. The one that shouldn’t have hit so hard, but did anyway:

“It’s cute though. You taking credit for things that didn’t start with you.”

It landed soft, but not soft enough.

His smile faltered—just a flicker. Barely there.

Because she wasn’t just talking about the drink.

And they both knew it.

He didn’t argue. Didn’t rush to defend himself. That was the trick with Violet. If you came at her too hot, she’d ice over. If you pulled back, she’d disappear. You had to meet her in the middle. Let her say the thing and leave it hanging.

So he nodded slowly. Accepted it.

Then leaned in just slightly, voice quieter now.

“Maybe I’m just better at finishing things than starting them.”

His eyes didn’t leave hers.

Not even when she looked away.

Not even when she pretended it didn’t matter.

Because it did.

Because she was still sitting here, in his flannel, sipping his drink, calling him out in the softest, most dangerous way possible.

And he couldn’t stop thinking—

If she’s still here, it’s not over.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

She felt his eyes on her like heat under skin—steady, quiet, all-in.

And for a second, just a second, it almost cracked her.

Maybe I’m just better at finishing things than starting them.

The line hung there, warm and weighty, like an open door she hadn’t asked for but couldn’t help glancing toward.

Violet arched a brow, slow and unimpressed, and tilted her glass in a half-toast.

“That so?” she murmured. “Because last I checked, starting something requires nerve. Finishing’s easy. Anyone can walk away.”

She sipped—unbothered. Or pretending to be. Same difference. The citrus hit her tongue again, but this time it didn’t burn. Not like before.

She set the glass down, fingers trailing off the rim, then looked up—direct. Cool.

“But sure. Let’s call it collaboration,” she said, lips quirking at the edge. “Just remind me to trademark Stay Awhile before you start selling T-shirts.”

That made him grin again. That crooked one that hit her somewhere she didn’t have armor for.

Damn him.

She leaned in slightly, elbows on the bar, her voice soft but sharp enough to leave a mark.

“And for the record?” she added. “If I did start something…”
She let that hang—just long enough.
“I wouldn’t need you to finish it for me.”

There it was. The flash of fire behind the calm. The real her, pressed beneath layers of clever quips and deflection. She wasn’t teasing now. Not entirely.

But then she exhaled, light and easy, and leaned back again—shoulders loose, tone shifting, a retreat dressed up like confidence.

“I like the drink though,” she said. “Even if the name’s stolen and the bartender’s questionable.”

She picked up the glass one last time and lifted it to her lips. But her eyes were on his the entire time.

Because staying wasn’t smart.

But leaving was starting to feel worse.