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.