Ava didn’t answer him right away either.

She stayed where she was, letting his words settle the way his hands did — steady, intentional, not asking for anything more than what she was already giving. Her thumb slowed against his cheek, lingering once more over that tiny freckle like it was something she wanted to remember exactly as it was.

“Yeah,” she said softly, after a beat. “Me too.”

It wasn’t a mirror. It wasn’t politeness. It was agreement — quiet and full.

When he thanked her, her expression shifted, something warm and almost tender passing over her face. She hadn’t realized how much the choice had mattered until he named it.

“I didn’t want to go,” Ava murmured. “And for once, I listened to that.”

Her fingers slid gently from his cheek back to the side of his neck, settling there like they belonged. She leaned into the brush of his temple against hers, breathing him in — not in a way that rushed, just in a way that noticed.

The song carried on, brighter now, the room alive behind him. She caught it then — the lift in the music, the familiar chorus spilling out — and her mouth curved in a soft smile.

“She got it,” Ava whispered, glancing past his shoulder. “Shania finally won.”

She watched Declan and Hattie for half a second — Hattie already laughing, hair flying, Declan moving with her like it was the easiest thing in the world — then looked back at Miles, grounding herself again in the stillness they were holding.

“But I’m glad we stayed here,” she added quietly. “I like that this didn’t have to change just because the song did.”

Her forehead rested against his once more, her voice low, meant only for him.

“I don’t need a big moment,” Ava said. “I just need one that feels honest.”

She stayed there — arms warm around him, breath steady, heart calm in a way she wasn’t used to but wasn’t afraid of either.

Not rushing.
Not naming.
Not leaving.

Just staying.

Hattie couldn’t stop smiling if she tried.

And she wasn’t trying.

Her cheeks hurt, her heart thudded, and her whole body felt lit from the inside like someone had struck a match and dropped it straight into her chest—but instead of burning her up, it warmed everything.

She danced with him—free, grinning, breathless in a way that had nothing to do with the pace and everything to do with him. His hands steady at her waist, his words still echoing in her ears, that forehead kiss sparking something wild and tender all at once.

He meant it.
Every word.
And that was the part that kept short-circuiting her brain.

Because somehow, impossibly, he saw all of her—every tangled, messy, stubborn, passionate part—and didn’t just stay. He chose her.

Again.
And again.
And again.

She swayed with him through the rest of the song, laughing when he twirled her without warning, letting her boots slide over the floor like she didn’t have a care in the world. Her fingers found his again, and when the tempo dipped slightly, so did she—settling in against him like her body already knew this was home.

When the second chorus faded and the beat slowed to a close, Hattie tucked herself closer for a final spin and then gently came to a stop, breath light and smile still catching at the corners of her mouth.

Her eyes sparkled up at him.

"That’s two," she said softly, fingers laced with his as they slowed their movement. “Our deal’s officially complete.”

She let that settle for a second, then tilted her head slightly, playful but steady. Her voice was low enough for only him to hear.

“Which means you’ve got a decision to make, Caldwell.”

She leaned in a fraction, grinning up at him, sweet and unhurried.

“You can win me over with one more drink... or you can walk me out of here before I start requesting every Shania song the DJ has.”

Her tone was light, but her eyes didn’t waver—open, sure, and quietly hopeful in a way she didn’t bother hiding.

Whatever he picked?

She was already his.

Miles didn’t speak right away.

He didn’t need to.

There was something sacred in the quiet—something he didn’t want to break just for the sake of filling it.

So he held her gently, letting the music shift around them, watching the light ripple through her expression when she smiled at the mention of Shania. He clocked it too, the chorus lifting in the background, Hattie’s unmistakable laugh spilling across the room like sunlight through a window cracked open. Declan was with her, of course, doing what Declan always did best—showing up and letting her shine.

Miles didn’t turn to watch. He didn’t need to see it to know it was good.

But this?

This soft, slow orbit between two people standing still?

This was good too.

Better than good.

His forehead stayed against hers as the moment breathed around them, warm and open. Her words settled in his chest like something he wanted to hold onto longer than the song would allow.

And when she fell quiet again, just staying there in his arms, he gently eased back—just enough to see her clearly.

His hand shifted from her waist to her hand, his fingers curling around hers in a way that was careful but sure. He didn’t rush it. Didn’t overplay it. Just bent slightly at the waist, his head dipping down until he could press a soft, deliberate kiss to the back of her hand.

Like she was something worth pausing for.

He held her gaze afterward, the hint of a smile ghosting at the edge of his mouth. A little crooked. A little shy.

But sure.

His thumb brushed lightly over her knuckles before he lifted their joined hands between them again, letting the rest of their bodies sway naturally back into rhythm.

The song played on.

And he didn’t need to say it—but maybe someday, he would.

That this was a big moment.
Just quiet.
Just theirs.
Just enough.

Declan didn’t hesitate.

Not even a second.

He took her in the way he always did—like he was memorizing the moment even as it was happening. The flushed cheeks, the bright eyes, the way her smile never quite settled because joy kept nudging it wider. His thumb brushed once over her knuckles, grounding himself before he moved.

“One more drink?” he repeated lightly, like he was considering it.

Then his mouth curved—slow, certain, unmistakably pleased.

“Nah.”

The decision was already made.

Before she could react, his hands slid from hers to her waist, confident and practiced, and in one smooth motion he lifted her—easy, solid, like it was nothing at all. The room seemed to tilt as he shifted her weight, laughter already spilling out of her as he swung her over his shoulder, one arm braced securely around the back of her thighs, the other steady at her hip.

There was a brief chorus of hoots and laughter from somewhere nearby. Someone clapped. Someone else whistled.

Declan didn’t look back.

“DJ’s gonna survive without the full Shania discography tonight,” he said calmly, patting her once—fond, unmistakably proud. “And so will the bar.”

He turned toward the exit, boots steady on the floor, moving like a man who knew exactly where he was going and what he was carrying.

“Tabs are on me,” he added over his shoulder, voice raised just enough to carry. “I’ll settle up tomorrow.”

No argument followed. No surprise either.

They all knew he was good for it.

As he pushed through the door, cool night air rushing in to meet them, he adjusted his grip just slightly—protective, careful, like even upside-down she mattered.

“Still smiling up there?” he asked, amused, pride threaded through every word.

Because he could feel it.

The way she was laughing.
The way her hands clutched at his jacket.
The way the night had wrapped itself around them and decided not to let go.

And as he stepped out into the dark, carrying her like a promise he had no intention of putting down anytime soon, Declan Caldwell was grinning too.

Because this?

This was exactly how he wanted to end the night.

Ava felt the kiss land like a held breath finally released.

Not startling.
Not overwhelming.
Just… right.

She looked at their joined hands for a second, at the way his thumb moved over her knuckles like it was something he was paying attention to, not just touching. When she looked back up at him, her expression was softer than before — open in a way that didn’t feel risky anymore.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. Not for the kiss alone — for the care in it. The patience. The way he hadn’t taken more than she was ready to give.

They kept swaying for a few more beats, the song stretching toward its end, the room warm and alive around them. Ava noticed how her body had settled against his without effort, how staying no longer felt like a decision she had to keep making.

Eventually, she shifted just enough to speak again, her voice low, meant only for him.

“When this song ends…” she began, then smiled a little at herself. “I think I’m ready to head out.”

She didn’t pull her hand away. If anything, her fingers curled more securely into his.

She hesitated just a beat — not from nerves, but from care — then met his eyes again.

“Would you walk me home?” she asked softly.

Not a challenge.
Not an expectation.

Just an invitation, offered with the same quiet honesty she’d given him all night.

Her thumb brushing once against his hand. “And I’d like the company.”

She stayed there, waiting — calm, steady, unafraid of whatever answer came.

But hopeful in a way that felt earned.

Hattie didn’t stop smiling.

She couldn’t.

Not when her world had tilted and steadied all at once in the arms of the man who’d just decided—without hesitation—that she was the only thing that mattered tonight.

Her laughter tumbled out into the air, breathless and alive, chased by the wind that caught in her hair as they passed through the door. Her hands fisted gently in the back of his jacket, not because she was scared—not even close—but because it gave her something to hold while she let go of everything else.

Declan had her.

Of that, she was certain.

And Ava, bless her, would snag her jacket and whatever else she might’ve left behind at the booth. The thought barely skimmed the edge of her mind before it drifted away again, carried off on the rush of cool air and adrenaline and the steady rhythm of Declan’s stride.

He was walking like he meant it.

Like she was his to carry.

Like he didn’t care if the whole damn town watched him do it, so long as she was still laughing against his back and not asking him to put her down.

Still smiling up there?

Her body jolted softly with the echo of his voice, and she shifted just enough to glance toward the ground—not that she could see much from this angle. Only shadows and movement and the distant gleam of headlights in the lot.

“You know I am,” she called back, her voice light and full and just a little breathless. “I might never stop.”

She felt him laugh in response, that low, deep sound vibrating through his back beneath her palms. It wrapped around her like warmth, like memory, like home.

And then she did what she always did when she was with him—
She let herself have the moment.
Let herself feel it all.
The wind against her cheeks, the sting of cold in her lungs, the pure, reckless joy of being loved this much without ever having to ask for it.

She relaxed fully then, her head resting sideways against his shoulder blade, eyes fluttering shut.

Because she knew exactly where they were going.

Because being carried didn’t feel like surrender.

It felt like trust.

It felt like safety.

It felt like him.

And even as the bar music faded behind them and the night stretched ahead, Hattie Monroe wasn’t worried about what came next.

Not when her heart was still laughing.
Not when she could feel every promise in the way he held her.
Not when she knew—with bone-deep certainty—
That she wasn’t being taken home.

She was home.
And he had her.
Always.

Miles didn’t answer right away.

Not because he was unsure—but because he wanted to hold onto this moment just a second longer. Let it imprint. Let it last.

The song was still playing, soft and unhurried in the background, the rest of the world still out there somewhere—people, lights, noise—but all of it faded beneath the quiet gravity of her hand in his and the way she was looking at him now.

Open.
Sure.
And not going anywhere unless he said yes.

His gaze dropped briefly to where her fingers had curled more securely into his, thumb still brushing against his like it was a language they’d both just started speaking but already understood.

When he looked back up, something in him softened further, the edges of him unwinding like the end of a sentence that didn’t need punctuation.

“Yeah,” he said gently. “I’d really like that.”

Not performative. Not even particularly smooth.

Just honest.

His fingers gave hers a slight squeeze, his other hand slipping from her waist, but not in a way that pushed her back. Just a promise that he’d stay close. That he’d walk beside her now, just like he’d danced beside her here.

The song finally began to fade, one last note stretching out like an exhale.

He held her gaze until the quiet settled around them again.

Then—
With one more glance toward the door, Miles nodded once. Not in a rush. Not to escape.

But because the night didn’t feel over yet.
Because she’d asked.
Because he wanted to be the one she turned to—step by step, word by word.

Still holding her hand, he smiled.

“Let’s go.”

The Rodeo Bar & Grill was alive in that familiar, once-a-year way—the annual Christmas party, a tradition that had stuck ever since Joe Barnes took over and decided the place deserved something to look forward to.

Garland was draped unevenly along the walls, red bows pinned wherever someone found a thumbtack. White string lights blinked above the bar, reflecting off bottles and the big mirror behind it. A slightly crooked Christmas tree stood near the jukebox, decorated with ornaments that had clearly survived more than one party like this. Someone had even wrapped lights around the pool tables—careful enough not to interfere with the shots, just festive enough to matter.

The bar hummed. Laughter, boots on worn wood, the clink of glasses. It smelled like pine cleaner, beer, and fried food—Bedford Falls in December.

Ava leaned back against the edge of an unoccupied pool table, the green felt cool beneath her palms. Her cranberry vodka sat within easy reach, the glass already sweating. She’d had several by now—not enough to dull her edges, just enough to soften them.

She felt good.

Loose.

Braver.

She wore a short, tight burgundy dress, sheer black tights, and knee-high black boots that grounded her even as the warmth bloomed in her chest. Her hair was in space buns and glitter, like a choice she’d made on instinct and trusted immediately.

Miles stood at the pool table next to hers, cue in hand, lining up a shot. The two tables sat close enough that they shared the same halo of light, close enough that conversation didn’t require raising a voice. They were the only two playing—no rotation, no crowd waiting their turn. Just them, moving between the tables like the game was an excuse.

They’d been inseparable since the bookstore.

Not glued together.

Just… tuned in.

Ava watched him line up the shot, her smile openly flirtatious now—nothing like the careful version of herself from the first time they’d been here together. She took a slow sip of her drink, eyes never leaving him.

“You know,” she said, voice low and warm, meant only for him, “I think I’ve figured something out.”

She tipped her head, curls slipping over her shoulder.

“I’m significantly better at flirting when I stop pretending I’m not flirting.”

A soft laugh followed—unapologetic, real. She nudged the pool table behind her lightly with her hip.

“Bookstore Ava would absolutely judge me right now,” she added. “But she’d also admit bar Ava is braver. Slightly buzzed. And way less concerned with whether a sentence sounds perfect before it leaves her mouth.”

Her gaze flicked across the narrow space between the tables—brief, deliberate—landing on his mouth before lifting back to his eyes.

“And she’s having a really good night.”

When it became her turn, she pushed off the table and stepped closer, reaching across the gap for the cue as he handed it over. Their fingers brushed—intentional, unhurried—charging the air without making a show of it.

She moved to her own table, lining up the shot, then glanced back over her shoulder at him, a crooked, playful grin tugging at her lips.

“Tell me you’re having fun,” she said softly. Not needy. Just honest. “Because I don’t remember the last time I smiled this much.”

The ball cracked cleanly, rolling across the felt.

Around them, the party carried on—music, laughter, clinking glasses—but between the two pool tables, it felt like its own small world.

Just Ava.
Just Miles.
Close enough to feel it.

Miles didn’t answer her right away.

Mostly because he was watching her.

She wasn’t looking at him anymore—not directly. She was lining up her next shot, wrist loose, eyes narrowed with just enough concentration to make it cute. But he could still feel her words on him. The kind that stayed in the air a beat longer than necessary. The kind that weren’t dressed up for effect.

And God, she looked good.

Not just the boots. Or the tights. Or the dress that made his brain short-circuit every time she leaned a little too far over the pool table.

It was the looseness. The confidence. The shimmer of glitter on her cheeks and the way she wasn’t trying to hide how much she liked the way he was looking at her.

He was always going to like Bookstore Ava. He’d keep buying her paperbacks and quoting Austen at her until she rolled her eyes in that way she didn’t actually mean.

But this version? Bar Ava?

Yeah. She was doing something to him.

He took a slow sip of his beer and leaned a shoulder against the edge of her pool table—the same one she’d been perched on minutes ago. He watched the curve of her back as she sank the shot, the subtle sway of her hips, the laugh she let out under her breath when the ball dropped in clean.

It was unfair.

Unfair and completely irresistible.

“I’m having a great night,” he said finally, voice low, warm, no effort to hide the weight behind it. “And for the record…”

He stepped closer as she stood up from her shot, his palm finding the small of her back—not possessive, just anchored. His fingers spread lightly against the velvet curve of her dress, right above where the tights started, respectful but very aware.

“I think Bookstore Ava would secretly be kind of into this,” he murmured near her ear, voice slow, teasing. “She’d pretend to be scandalized, but she’d dog-ear the memory.”

She turned slightly, playful smirk already forming, but he beat her to it—reaching for her hand where it still rested on the cue and curling his fingers gently around her wrist.

“You flirting like you mean it?” he went on, gaze flicking from her mouth to her eyes, “Kind of wrecks me.”

He meant it. Fully. Without needing to elaborate.

But before she could turn it into something serious—or worse, tease him for it—he tugged her just slightly forward by the hand and stepped around behind her, pressing the cue back into her grip.

“Next shot’s yours,” he said, voice still low. “But I’m spotting you.”

He didn’t back away.

Didn’t leave space like he usually did.

Instead, he placed his hands lightly on her hips—steady, sure, thumbs brushing slow against the fabric. Just enough contact to guide her stance. Just enough pressure to make his presence known.

“Feet a little wider,” he murmured, all mock seriousness now. “Can’t have you blaming the cranberry vodka for poor form.”

He was grinning, but his eyes—when she glanced back—were darker than they had been earlier. Still soft, still open. Just… heavier now. Wanting.

Wanting her exactly like this.

She lined up the shot with a muttered comment he didn’t quite catch—and probably didn’t deserve to—but he stayed close anyway, letting the moment stretch, letting his touch linger just enough.

Letting her feel the version of him that only she got to see.

Bar Miles. Less poetic. Still hers.

And so completely gone for her, it wasn’t even funny.

Ava laughed again, softer this time, the sound catching just a little when she felt his hand settle at her back. She didn’t pull away. Didn’t lean harder either. Just let herself exist right there in the space he’d claimed so easily.

“Okay, first of all,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at him with mock seriousness, “I do not pretend to be scandalized. I am scandalized. I just… recover quickly.”

Her eyes flicked down to his hands on her hips, then back up to his face, the glitter on her cheeks catching the low bar light when she smiled.

“And second,” she added, voice dropping, warm and amused, “Bookstore Ava absolutely would be into this. She’d just write about it later and pretend it was metaphor.”

She shifted her stance like she was taking his advice, feet widening just enough to humor him, then paused.

“But let’s be clear,” she murmured, tilting her head slightly so her curls brushed his jaw. “If I miss this shot, it’s not the cranberry vodka.”

It was you, she didn’t say—but the look she gave him said it anyway.

She lined up the shot, steady despite the heat of him behind her, and when the ball dropped clean again, she straightened slowly, deliberately, turning in his space until she was facing him fully.

Her hands came up to rest lightly on his forearms, grounding, playful.

“See?” she said, grinning. “Natural talent. No spotting required.”

Then she slipped past him, hips brushing his just enough to be unmistakable, circling the table with the cue balanced casually in her hand. She bent again to line up the next shot, glanced back at him over her shoulder, eyes bright and daring.

“But,” she added, smiling wider now, “if you want to stand there and look pretty while I win… I won’t stop you.”

Bar Ava wasn’t subtle.

And she had absolutely no intention of being.

Ava felt him before she saw him.

The shift in the air. The heat returning to her back. The familiar weight of his presence sliding in close again like he’d decided—very deliberately—that he was done pretending he didn’t want exactly this.

She smiled to herself, breath hitching just a touch when his hands came back to her hips.

Except this time… they didn’t stop there.

They settled lower. Firmer. Purposeful.

Not grabbing. Not rushing.

Just honest about where he wanted to be now that she’d made it clear he didn’t have to ask.

Ava let out a quiet laugh, low and breathy, the sound caught somewhere between amusement and nerves she wasn’t even trying to hide anymore.

“Well,” she murmured, tilting her head slightly, glanced back at him, eyes bright and knowing, “look at you. Took you long enough.”

She didn’t move his hands away.

Didn’t tease him for it either.

Instead, she leaned back into him just enough to make the contact unmistakable, grounding herself there like it was exactly where she wanted to be.

“Guess I shouldn’t have said you could look pretty,” she added, lining up the shot again, voice softer now. “You heard that as participate.”

Her fingers tightened on the cue as she focused, but her body stayed relaxed—open—completely aware of him behind her. The warmth of his chest at her back. The steady pressure of his hands. The way he felt less like a distraction now and more like part of her balance.

“Okay,” she said quietly, a grin tugging at her lips. “Spot me. But if I miss—”

She paused, glanced back at him over her shoulder again, playful but sincere.

“—that one’s on you.”

Then she took the shot.

And no matter where the ball landed, Ava already knew one thing for sure—

She wasn’t stepping out of his hands anytime soon.