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.”