Cameron watched her push off the stool and walk away from the bar like she hadn’t just reached two fingers into his ribs and pressed.

Not hard. Not cruel. Just enough to remind him she knew exactly where things landed.

Life goes on, Cameron.

Yeah. He got that.

He stayed where he was for a second after she crossed toward the dartboard, beer bottle still in hand, thumb braced against the cold neck of it while his eyes followed her without permission. The room had gone late-night soft around them—less a bar now than the leftover shape of one. Neon buzzing low. Chairs half tucked in. The bartender pretending not to watch from the far end of the counter.

Lucy under the dartboard light looked unfairly familiar.

Converse. Jeans. Loose strands of hair catching gold where the bulb hit them. That easy way she had of settling into a space like it belonged to her the second she decided it did.

The first dart hit. Then the second.

And then she asked if he was still terrible.

That got a breath of a laugh out of him before he could help it.

There she was.

Not the girl he’d dated. Not the version of her memory had polished into something too sweet and impossible. Just Lucy—dry, observant, a little amused at his expense in a way that used to make him feel weirdly chosen.

He pushed off the bar and headed over.

“Terrible’s strong,” he said as he came up beside her, voice carrying easier now. “I’d say inconsistent. Which sounds better and means the same thing.”

He set his beer on the little shelf beneath the board and reached for one of the remaining darts. The metal sat familiar enough in his fingers, though not in the way a baseball had once felt. Nothing ever had.

Standing beside her again—really beside her, not passing in a hallway, not orbiting across a grocery aisle—hit him in that same delayed way everything with Lucy seemed to now. Not because she looked at him. Because she didn’t need to. Because she’d made space and trusted him to decide what to do with it.

He rolled the dart once between his fingers, eyeing the board.

“You did always get weirdly competitive about this one.”

A beat.

“Think you liked having documented proof I wasn’t good at everything.”

His mouth tipped slightly when he said it, but there was something real under it too. Back then she had liked beating him at darts. At cards. At any tiny stupid thing that punctured the myth of Cameron Tate, Bedford Falls golden boy. And he had liked that she liked it. More than he’d ever admitted.

He threw.

The dart hit the board with a thunk well outside where he’d aimed.

Not awful. Not good.

Cameron looked at it, then over at Lucy.

“Okay,” he said. “That one was terrible.”

He reached for his beer, took a quick pull, then leaned one shoulder against the wall beside the board, leaving enough room between them not to crowd her. That part he was conscious of now in a way he never used to be—where he stood, how close, whether his size changed the feel of a space.

The corner of his mouth tugged again.

“You can laugh. I know you want to.”

His tone stayed easy, but the ease felt earned now, less like performance and more like relief. Not because things were fixed. Jesus, no. Just because for the first time all night they were standing in the same moment instead of tripping over ten years of ghosts on the way to it.

His gaze drifted to the board, then back to her profile.

What she’d said at the bar still sat with him. Not pretending. The world didn’t tilt. Life goes on.

It stung. Mostly because it was true. And because some stupid younger version of him had once assumed she’d always feel him arriving.

Now she didn’t. Or not in the way he’d wanted. And maybe that was the most adult thing either of them had admitted all night.

He let out a quiet breath through his nose.

“You know,” he said after a second, looking at the board instead of her, “you saying none of this surprised you should probably bother me more than it does.”

His fingers drummed once against the bottle.

“But honestly?” A slight shrug. “Feels about right.”

He glanced at her then, expression calm, a little self-aware.

“You always did know what I meant before I figured out how to say it.”

Not flattery. Not an opening move. Just memory stated plain.

The jukebox hummed through the next verse. Behind them, somebody in the kitchen dropped something metal and swore faintly. The bartender called that he was doing one last round if they wanted anything else.

Cameron lifted his beer in vague acknowledgment without turning.

Then his eyes cut back to the dartboard.

“So what’s the damage?” he asked. “You beating me by enough that I should fake a shoulder injury, or is there still some dignity left on the table?”

He pushed off the wall long enough to take another dart, brushing closer for half a second as he did—not touching, just passing within that small current of shared air—and this time when he threw, it landed better. Closer in. Respectable.

He gave a low nod like he approved of himself.

“There we go. Natural athlete. Thank God.”

The line came out dry enough that he knew she’d hear the self-mockery in it. That was intentional. Lucy had spent enough years around the worst version of his ego. He had no interest in dragging its corpse back out now.

He reached for the next dart, turning it between his fingers before he looked her way again.

And because he apparently wasn’t fully done telling the truth tonight, he added, quieter—

“For what it’s worth… I’m glad you weren’t pretending.”

His voice had lost some of its teasing there, gone low and straightforward again.

“Even if the answer wasn’t great for my ego.”

His eyes held on hers for a second when he said it. Not asking for softness. Not trying to make her give it. Just letting her see he meant it.

Then the moment loosened on its own, as these things sometimes did when they were allowed to.

Cameron lifted the dart, looked back at the board, and said, “If I hit the bullseye, I get to pretend this whole conversation was my idea and not me wandering over here with absolutely no plan.”

He threw.

The dart landed nowhere near center.

A rough laugh left him, fuller this time, and he dropped his head once.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “That feels more accurate.”

When he looked back at Lucy, the grin tugging at his mouth had gone a little crooked, a little younger, not in an immature way—just in the way old rhythms sometimes made it easy to recognize the person underneath all the years.

“Your turn, Corbett.”

He stepped back half a pace and tipped his hand toward the board.

And there, in the softened light near the dartboard, with the bar nearly empty and Bedford Falls still stubbornly too small for either of them to disappear inside, Cameron stayed.

Not because he thought he was winning anything. Not because a few decent lines and one bad dart game meant the history between them had changed shape.

Just because she’d offered him a place to stand in the same room without pretending.

And for tonight, that felt like more than he deserved.

Lucy watched his first dart hit wide.

Her mouth curved before she could stop it.

Not a full smile—just that quiet, familiar twitch at the corner of her lips that had always appeared whenever Cameron Tate proved he was, in fact, bad at something.

“Mm,” she hummed softly, arms folding loosely across her chest.

“Inconsistent.”

Her eyebrow lifted slightly as she repeated his word back to him.

“That’s one way to spin it.”

She didn’t move when he stepped up beside her. The warmth of another person in that narrow space registered—of course it did—but Lucy didn’t shift away either. She just leaned one shoulder against the wall beside the board, watching him line up his throw like this was the most normal thing in the world.

The dart hit outside the ring.

She gave a small, approving nod.

“Yeah,” she said calmly. “That one was terrible.”

When he said she could laugh, Lucy exhaled through her nose and shook her head slightly.

“I don’t need permission.”

But the edge of humor stayed there.

She reached for one of the darts resting on the little metal shelf and rolled it between her fingers while he talked. The bar around them had that late-hour quiet now—low music, the bartender clinking glasses together, the faint smell of beer and wood and citrus hanging in the air.

When Cameron said she always knew what he meant before he figured out how to say it, Lucy glanced at him sideways.

Her expression didn’t change much.

But there was recognition there.

“Someone had to,” she said lightly.

She stepped forward then, lifting the dart.

Her stance was relaxed—one foot slightly ahead of the other, elbow loose. Lucy didn’t rush the throw. She just watched the board for a second and flicked her wrist.

Thunk.

Outer ring.

She studied it for a second, then shrugged like she didn’t care much either way.

When Cameron asked about the damage and fake shoulder injuries, she looked over her shoulder at him again.

“You’re losing,” she said simply.

No triumph.

Just fact.

“But I’ll let you keep your dignity.”

Lucy moved forward to pull the darts from the board, her shoulder passing near his for a moment. Not touching. Just that small current of shared air between them again.

When she handed one back to him, her fingers brushed the metal tip rather than his hand—intentional without being obvious.

Boundaries.

Lucy leaned back against the wall again as he threw the next dart and actually hit something respectable.

Her head tilted slightly.

“Well,” she said, a little impressed despite herself. “Look at that.”

She paused, then added dryly:

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

When he admitted he was glad she wasn’t pretending, Lucy didn’t answer immediately.

Instead she picked up another dart and turned it slowly between her fingers while she thought about it.

Then she looked at him.

Her voice stayed calm when she spoke.

“I wasn’t pretending because I didn’t need to.”

No edge.

No cruelty.

Just honesty.

Lucy lifted her chin slightly toward the dartboard.

“You showing up tonight doesn’t undo anything,” she said evenly. “But it doesn’t have to ruin the night either.”

She let that settle for a second.

Then his bullseye attempt missed entirely.

That time she did laugh.

It slipped out before she tried to stop it, warm and surprised and a little nostalgic.

“Wow,” she said, shaking her head once. “You really talked that one up.”

Lucy stepped forward again for her turn.

She threw.

Thunk.

Inner ring.

Her eyes widened slightly at the hit before she recovered and looked back at Cameron.

“Alright,” she said, nodding once. “I’ll take it.”

She pulled the darts from the board again and handed one to him.

Then she leaned back against the wall, relaxed but steady, meeting his gaze for a moment.

“I am glad you didn’t walk out earlier,” she said after a beat.

The honesty in it was quiet, not heavy.

“But let’s be clear about something.”

Her tone stayed calm. Direct.

Lucy Corbett had never needed to raise her voice to draw a line.

“This”—she gestured lightly between them with the dart—“is just darts.”

Her eyebrow lifted faintly.

“A conversation.”

Another small shrug.

“It doesn’t mean we’re pretending nothing happened.”

She watched him for a second to make sure that landed.

Then the edge of humor returned to her voice again.

“But it also doesn’t mean we have to act like strangers who can’t stand in the same room.”

Lucy tipped the dart toward the board.

“So relax, Tate.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth again.

“You’re allowed to lose a game of darts without turning it into a whole emotional event.”

She nodded toward the board.

“Go ahead.”

Then, softer—but still steady:

“You’re still up.”

Cameron took the dart from her and felt that line for exactly what it was.

Clear. Intentional. Not unkind.

This is just darts.

A conversation.

Not absolution. Not nostalgia dressed up as fate. Not one of those small-town miracles people liked to imagine into other people’s lives because it made for a better story at the diner counter.

Just this.

And weirdly, standing there with the dart in his hand and Lucy looking at him like she expected him to understand plain English for once in his life, Cameron felt something in his chest loosen instead of tighten.

He huffed a quiet laugh, dropping his gaze to the dart between his fingers.

“Yeah,” he said, rough-edged but easy enough. “Got it.”

Then he looked back up at her, one side of his mouth pulling faintly.

“Darts. No emotional spiral. Very manageable stuff.”

There was a little self-awareness in it, a little surrender too. The old version of him might’ve pushed the line just to see if it moved. Might’ve mistaken access for invitation. Might’ve taken one warm laugh and one honest sentence and built a whole future on top of it before the night was even over.

This version just nodded once and turned back to the board.

He rolled his shoulder like he was loosening up for something serious, earning himself absolutely nothing but the satisfaction of hearing Lucy’s earlier laugh still ringing somewhere in the back of his head. Then he stepped up and squinted at the dartboard.

“Relax, Tate,” he muttered under his breath. “You’re allowed to lose with dignity.”

He threw.

Thunk.

Better. Not great, but solid enough that he gave a low sound of approval and pointed at it like that settled something.

“There,” he said. “That’s a man making peace with mediocrity.”

He moved aside and leaned back against the wall again, beer bottle hanging loose from two fingers now. The space between them felt easier than it had at the bar—still careful, still deliberate, but not brittle. More like something both of them had agreed not to mishandle for the next few minutes.

His eyes slid to her.

The dartboard light caught the side of her face, softened the line of her cheek, turned the loose strands around her hair gold at the edges. It did stupid things to his memory. Made him think of football field lights and the front windows of Honey Bee Vintage at sunset and every other place he’d once stood beside her without realizing how temporary any of it could be.

He looked back at the board before he got too lost in that.

“For what it’s worth,” he said after a second, quieter now, “I know it doesn’t undo anything.”

Not defensive. Not fishing. Just answering the part she’d made sure he heard.

His thumb traced a line through the condensation on his bottle.

“And I’m not asking it to.”

A pause.

“I think I just…” He stopped, breathed out once through his nose. “I don’t know. I think I forgot those were two different things for a while.”

Undoing the past. Ruining the present. Wanting neither.

That felt truer than most of what he’d told himself since coming back to Bedford Falls.

He glanced at her again, then tipped his chin toward the board.

“Anyway. Your lead’s still annoying, so I’m gonna need you to miss out of politeness.”

His tone had lightened again, back in that dry place she gave him room to stand in. It wasn’t forced now. It just was.

From the bar, the bartender called that they had about ten minutes before he started kicking people out for real this time.

Cameron lifted his bottle in acknowledgment again.

“Guy says that every week,” he said. “Then he spends twenty more minutes wiping the same counter and pretending he’s not sentimental.”

He looked toward the bar, then back to Lucy.

“Town’s full of people who act tougher than they are.”

The line landed half like a joke, half like something else. He let her decide which.

Then he tipped his head toward the dartboard, giving her the floor.

“C’mon, Corbett,” he said, low and easy. “Show-off shot. You’ve earned it.”

When she stepped up, he stayed where he was—shoulder to the wall, long legs loose, gaze on her without crowding her with it. He’d always liked watching her do small things well. That was maybe one of the first real things he’d loved about her, back before he was old enough to call it love with any honesty: the way she paid attention. The way she never needed to make a production out of being good at something.

He caught himself almost smiling before the dart even left her hand.

And when it hit, whatever it was, he let out a low whistle.

“Alright,” he said. “That one felt personal.”

He pushed off the wall to pull his own darts from the board, leaving hers where they were for a second like maybe they deserved the spotlight. When he handed them back, his fingers stayed careful on the dull ends, giving her the same distance she’d asked for without having to ask out loud again.

Then he straightened and looked at her, expression quieter now, but warm around the edges in a way it hadn’t been earlier.

“You know what’s weird?” he said.

He didn’t wait long enough for her to answer because he wasn’t sure he needed one.

“This is probably the least strange I’ve felt around you since I moved back.”

The honesty of it sat there plain between them.

He gave a small shrug.

“Still a little strange.” A brief glance at the board. “But not bad strange.”

Not loaded with guilt. Not sharpened by the old instinct to either run or fix. Just a little off-balance in the way things sometimes were when they were new again, even if the people in them weren’t.

The bar door opened and shut once more, letting in a draft of cool Tennessee night before the room settled again. The jukebox had drifted into something older now, a little dusty and soft. Outside, somewhere beyond the neon-lit windows, Bedford Falls was probably doing what it always did this late—slowing down without ever fully going still.

Cameron looked at Lucy for a beat longer, then tipped the last of his beer back and set the empty bottle beside hers on the shelf under the dartboard.

Two bottles. A half-played game. A line clearly drawn and, for once, respected.

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and let out a quiet breath.

“So,” he said, voice low and easier than it had been all night, “if this really is just darts and not some major emotional landmark, I feel like I should at least get one chance to redeem myself before closing time.”

His brows lifted slightly, jock-casual, almost boyish in the ask even though there was a steadier man underneath it now.

“One more round.”

A beat.

“Loser walks out first so nobody at Harlan’s Market has anything fun to gossip about tomorrow.”

Lucy watched him take the dart from her.

Not just the motion of it — the way his fingers closed around the metal, the way his shoulders settled after she’d drawn that line. She paid attention to that kind of thing. Always had. It was the same instinct that used to make her good at interviews for the school paper, the same quiet awareness that made people feel like she was listening even when she hadn’t said a word yet.

When he said he got it, she believed him.

Not completely — Lucy had learned better than that — but enough.

Her weight shifted slightly where she stood against the wall, shoulder brushing the cool paint near the dartboard. She folded her arms loosely across her midsection for a moment while she watched him square up to throw. The light above the board buzzed faintly, a soft yellow halo over the worn rings of the dartboard.

He muttered something to himself.

Lucy caught the tail end of it and the corner of her mouth tipped upward.

That was familiar too.

Cameron Tate talking to himself like a guy trying to coach his own nerves down.

She didn’t comment on it.

She just watched him throw.

Thunk.

Better.

Lucy lifted one brow slightly as she glanced at where the dart had landed.

“Well,” she said calmly, pushing off the wall to step closer to the board, “look at that.”

Her voice carried the smallest thread of approval.

“Growth.”

She reached up to pull one of the darts free, the cork board giving a soft pop as it came loose. Her fingers turned the dart absently between them while Cameron leaned back against the wall again.

When he said he knew it didn’t undo anything, Lucy didn’t answer right away.

Her eyes flicked toward him briefly, then back to the dartboard.

She knew what he meant.

She also knew how easy it was for people in towns like Bedford Falls to rewrite history if you gave them even the smallest invitation. The girl who stayed. The boy who came back. Old high school sweethearts standing under soft lights and suddenly everyone’s pretending the hard parts were just a bump in the road.

Lucy had never liked that kind of story.

Not because she was bitter.

Because it wasn’t honest.

She stepped back into position, lining up the dart in her fingers.

“You don’t have to keep clarifying that,” she said after a moment, her voice even. Not sharp. Just steady.

Her eyes stayed on the board.

“I heard you the first time.”

The dart left her hand.

Thunk.

It landed clean, not quite center but close enough that she gave a small satisfied nod to herself.

Lucy glanced sideways at him then.

“Besides,” she added, the faintest smile pulling at the corner of her mouth, “you explaining things twice has never really been your brand.”

The tease was gentle.

Not a jab.

She pulled her dart free again and stepped aside so he had space.

When he asked her to miss out of politeness, Lucy laughed softly under her breath.

“That’s a bold request from someone who just discovered mediocrity,” she said.

But there was warmth in it.

She noticed the way he looked away from her sometimes when the room got too quiet. The way he kept giving her room to move, to step forward, to breathe. That wasn’t the Cameron she’d dated at seventeen.

That Cameron had filled space like it belonged to him.

This one seemed… aware of it.

Lucy didn’t say anything about that.

But she noticed.

When the bartender called out about closing time, Lucy glanced toward the bar. She’d seen the same routine a hundred times — the warning that meant nothing, the slow cleaning that stretched longer than it should.

Cameron’s comment about people acting tougher than they were earned him a small look from her.

Her eyes narrowed slightly in a thoughtful way.

“You including yourself in that?” she asked lightly.

Not accusing.

Just curious.

She stepped up for another throw.

The dart left her fingers smoothly.

Thunk.

Better than the last one.

Lucy tilted her head at the board like she was evaluating her own performance before stepping back again. When Cameron whistled, she gave a small shrug.

“You walked right into that one,” she said.

Her tone stayed easy, but there was a quiet steadiness under it.

Lucy pulled the darts free again, handing them back carefully by the dull end like before. Their fingers never quite touched.

Intentional.

Not awkward.

Just respectful.

When Cameron said it was the least strange he’d felt around her since moving back, Lucy paused for a second before leaning her shoulder lightly against the wall again.

Her eyes rested on him for a moment.

Long enough to study his face properly in the soft light.

“Good,” she said simply.

She meant it.

Lucy had spent enough years rebuilding her life in a town that remembered everything. The last thing she wanted was for every room to tighten every time Cameron Tate walked into it.

Not for her.

Not for him either, honestly.

“Strange gets old,” she added after a beat.

Her voice stayed quiet.

Then he suggested another round.

Lucy watched him for a moment, the faint boyish tilt of his expression making something in her chest shift unexpectedly — not nostalgia exactly, just the recognition of someone she’d once known better than anyone else.

She exhaled softly through her nose.

“One more round,” she repeated.

Her eyes drifted briefly toward the bar, then back to him.

The idea of walking out second while the town speculated wasn’t lost on her.

Neither was the small humor in it.

Lucy pushed herself off the wall again, picking up the darts and weighing them in her palm.

“Alright,” she said finally.

Her voice stayed calm.

But there was the smallest hint of challenge in it now.

“One more.”

She glanced up at him as she handed him a dart.

“But just so we’re clear…”

The corner of her mouth lifted slightly.

“I’m not losing on purpose to protect your reputation.”

Then she stepped up to the line again, shoulders loose, attention settling back on the board.

Lucy Corbett had always been good at small, quiet competitions.

And tonight, under the buzzing dartboard light in a nearly empty Bedford Falls bar, she looked perfectly content letting the game stay exactly what she said it was.

Lucy watched him head back toward the bar.

Not in a way that would’ve looked obvious to anyone else — she didn’t turn fully, didn’t crane her neck or follow him with her eyes the whole way across the room. But her attention drifted that direction all the same, the way it does when someone you used to know well moves through a space you’re standing in.

She stayed near the dartboard, one shoulder leaning lightly against the wall, the darts resting loosely in her hand.

The bar had thinned out even more now.

Late enough that the energy had changed. What had been loud earlier — clinking glasses, music, people crowding the pool table — had softened into something slower. Chairs were pushed in crookedly. The bartender moved with the deliberate patience of someone counting down the minutes to closing.

Lucy rolled one of the darts slowly between her fingers while she waited.

Her gaze drifted casually around the room.

Not searching for anything in particular.

Just taking in the shape of things the way she always did.

Two guys near the far end of the bar had been mid-conversation a moment earlier. One of them glanced toward Cameron when he walked up to order, then toward Lucy, and just as quickly both of them looked away again — suddenly very interested in the labels on their bottles.

Lucy noticed.

Of course she did.

Bedford Falls wasn’t subtle.

It never had been.

She didn’t react outwardly, but a quiet little breath of amusement slipped through her nose.

People in this town had always watched things like this. Old stories. Old couples. Any hint of a scene that might eventually turn into something people could talk about over pancakes at Harlan’s Market.

Lucy wasn’t interested in giving them one.

Her gaze drifted toward the pool table for a moment instead, remembering the noise of her friends there earlier — Dani arguing with the felt again, someone missing an easy shot and blaming the cue. The echoes of it still lingered in the quiet room.

Then she glanced back toward the bar again.

Cameron stood there waiting for the bartender, one forearm resting against the counter.

For a second, without really meaning to, Lucy studied him the way she might study any familiar detail in town — the way he carried himself now, the broader set of his shoulders compared to the boy he’d been, the slower way he moved through the room.

He looked… settled.

Not the restless version of him she’d watched leave town years ago.

Her fingers paused their idle spin of the dart.

A memory slipped in uninvited — Cameron leaning across the counter at Honey Bee Vintage while she folded sweaters, pretending he needed help picking out a jacket he had absolutely no intention of buying.

Lucy pushed the thought aside gently.

Not because it hurt.

Just because it didn’t belong here.

She shifted her weight off the wall and stepped a little closer to the dartboard again, lining up the darts neatly in her hand while she waited.

Behind her, someone near the door stood up from their stool. The chair scraped softly across the floor before the person headed outside into the cool night air.

The two guys at the bar glanced toward her again.

Then away.

Lucy caught the movement in her peripheral vision and shook her head slightly, a quiet smile tugging at her mouth.

“Unbelievable,” she murmured under her breath.

Not annoyed.

Just… amused.

She set one dart lightly against the board without throwing it, tapping the tip against the cork once while she waited.

When Cameron finally turned from the bar again, Lucy lifted her eyes to meet his across the room for half a second.

Her expression was calm.

Unbothered.

Like none of the little glances from the room mattered.

Then she tipped the dart toward him in a small, casual gesture.

Your move.

No rush.

Just a game waiting to finish.

Cameron didn’t look back at her right away.

That part was deliberate.

He made it to the bar, planted one forearm on the worn wood, and waited while the bartender ambled over with the same end-of-night expression he always had—half tired, half nosy, like he’d already decided whatever happened in his bar belonged to him a little.

“Another beer,” Cameron said, easy. “And one for her too.”

The bartender’s eyes flicked past him toward the dartboard, then back again with the faintest hint of interest.

Cameron just pulled his wallet out.

No explanation. No awkwardness. Just simple.

While the bartender reached into the cooler, Cameron finally glanced Lucy’s way.

And caught her looking farther down the bar.

Not at him.

At the two guys near the end who were doing a terrible job pretending they weren’t watching the whole thing unfold in careful little pieces. One of them lifted his bottle too late, the other suddenly found the wood grain on the counter fascinating.

Cameron followed her gaze to them, then looked back at Lucy in time to catch the calm, almost amused set of her face.

That got the smallest pull at the corner of his mouth.

Of course she’d noticed. Of course Bedford Falls couldn’t help itself.

Then he turned his attention back to the bar.

A younger version of him might’ve cared. Might’ve felt territorial or irritated or stupidly competitive about two random guys looking her way. Might’ve thought every glance in a town like this meant something had to be won.

Now?

He didn’t care.

Let them look. Let them talk. Let Bedford Falls do what Bedford Falls always did—make stories out of half a glance and a shared beer and two people standing too close under bad bar lighting.

He had a nice little buzz warming his blood, Lucy had laughed at him twice, and they were about to finish a dart game without either of them turning it into a disaster.

As far as Cameron was concerned, the night was going just fine.

The bartender set the beers down, then slid the little paper tab over with one finger.

Cameron looked at it, reached for his card, and asked, “That both of ours?”

The guy glanced toward the dartboard again. “You want it to be?”

Cameron snorted softly. “Yeah.”

He paid without making a thing out of it. Friendly. Clean. No grand gesture. No chance for it to feel loaded if he kept the tone right, which he intended to.

When the receipt came back, he signed it fast, tucked the card away, and wrapped one hand around each bottle by the neck.

Then he headed back.

Lucy was still near the dartboard, easy in her stance, dart in hand, looking like she belonged in the softened hush of the room more naturally than anybody else left in it. When her eyes met his across the space, Cameron tipped one beer slightly in acknowledgment before closing the last few feet between them.

“Delivery service,” he said, holding the bottle out to her first.

Once she took it, he added, lighter, “Paid your tab too, before you give me that look. Friendly move. Don’t overanalyze it.”

His mouth tugged crooked at one side, already halfway amused with himself for heading her off.

Then he took the dart from her other hand—careful, fingers closing around the dull end, not touching more than necessary—and stepped up to the line like the whole bar had suddenly become a championship arena instead of a nearly empty room that smelled like old wood and lime.

He rolled his shoulders once.

Adjusted his grip.

Took a long pull from his beer like it was fuel for greatness.

Then, with complete unnecessary flair, he pointed the dart at the board and said under his breath, “If I’m going down, I’m doing it with style.”

He threw.

Thunk.

Not perfect. Not awful either.

Respectable enough that he spread one arm slightly like he expected applause from the bartender, the jukebox, and the two idiots down the bar who were probably still pretending not to watch.

“Thank you,” he said to no one. “A natural showman.”

That got a quiet laugh out of him before he stepped aside and handed Lucy the dart back, beer loose in his other hand, grin still hanging around the edges of his mouth.

He took another sip and leaned one shoulder against the wall near her, relaxed now in a way that felt deep instead of careless.

Across the room, the two guys looked away again when he happened to glance in their direction.

Cameron didn’t bother holding the look. Didn’t need to. Didn’t want to.

He turned back to Lucy instead.

“Your turn,” he said, low and easy. “Try not to get rattled by the pressure of following a performance like that.”

The line came light, teasing, but his mood stayed steady underneath it—content, warm, and oddly uncomplicated for once.

He was with her. They were fine. The town could stare itself silly.

And standing there beside the dartboard with a beer in his hand and the last stretch of the night settling soft around them, Cameron realized he meant what he’d felt earlier.

He’d always love her.

Maybe he always would.

But tonight he wasn’t reaching for more. Wasn’t trying to turn one good conversation and a shared game into some sign from the universe.

He was just enjoying this. Her company. Her dry little looks. The fact that she’d let him stand here at all.

And he had no intention of ruining that.

So when he looked at her again, there was something simpler in his expression now. Still warm. Still familiar. But easier.

“C’mon, Corbett,” he said, tipping his beer toward the board. “Embarrass me properly.”

Lucy had seen him glance back across the room.

Not right away — that part she noticed.

Cameron had always had a bit of pride about how he carried himself in public spaces. Even now, years later, she recognized the small deliberate choices in the way he moved. The casual lean against the bar. The easy tone with the bartender. The way he paid the tab without turning it into something that needed to be acknowledged.

Lucy appreciated that.

She didn’t make a face about the beer when he handed it to her either.

She just took it.

Her fingers wrapped around the cold glass, condensation already beginning to gather under her grip. She tipped the bottle once in a small nod of thanks before taking a quick sip, her eyes already drifting back to the dartboard.

“Not overanalyzing,” she said calmly after he made his disclaimer.

Her tone was neutral, but the corner of her mouth tugged faintly upward.

“Relax.”

Lucy had never needed a man buying her a drink to mean anything more than a drink.

Her attention returned to the board just as Cameron stepped up with his theatrical little routine. The shoulder roll. The long pull from the beer like he was preparing for something dramatic.

Lucy leaned one shoulder back against the wall again and watched.

One brow lifted.

The dart landed.

Respectable.

She nodded once.

“Alright,” she said. “That one counts.”

Her voice carried the quiet approval of someone who had already accepted she’d still win.

When he spread his arm like he deserved applause, Lucy took another sip of her beer and glanced briefly down the bar where the two men were still failing spectacularly at pretending they weren’t paying attention.

They looked away again.

Lucy just shook her head faintly to herself.

Then Cameron stepped aside.

Her turn.

Lucy pushed off the wall slowly, the movement relaxed but purposeful. She handed her beer off to the small shelf beneath the dartboard and stepped into place beside him, the familiar rhythm of the game settling back into her body like muscle memory.

The dart sat comfortably between her fingers.

She lined it up.

But before throwing, she glanced sideways at him.

“You’re gripping it wrong again.”

Matter-of-fact.

Not teasing.

Lucy reached over and tapped lightly at the dart in his hand, adjusting the position of his fingers just slightly.

“Loosen up here,” she said. “You always try to muscle it.”

Her voice softened just a little with the familiarity of the correction.

“You don’t throw darts like you throw a baseball.”

That was the closest thing to instruction Cameron Tate had probably heard from her in years.

Then she stepped back into position.

Lucy lifted her arm, elbow relaxed, wrist loose.

She threw.

Thunk.

Inner ring.

She didn’t celebrate.

Just nodded once at the board like that was exactly where it was supposed to go.

Lucy turned her head slightly toward Cameron then, the smallest hint of satisfaction crossing her expression.

“Told you,” she said.

She walked forward and pulled the dart from the board with a soft pop before stepping back again. The beer buzz in her system made the room feel warmer now, the low hum of the jukebox filling the quiet spaces between their voices.

But Lucy stayed steady.

Focused.

Her attention settled right back on the dartboard like the rest of the room barely existed.

When she handed the dart back to him this time, she didn’t rush the movement.

Her fingers brushed the dull end of the dart, her gaze meeting his briefly before shifting back to the board again.

“Watch,” she said calmly.

Lucy lifted another dart.

“Same throw.”

She lined it up again, showing him the loose grip.

The dart flew.

Thunk.

Just outside the center.

Lucy exhaled quietly through her nose.

“See?”

She stepped back and picked up her beer again, leaning lightly against the wall beside him.

Her eyes flicked to the board, then to him.

“You’re thinking too much,” she added.

The faintest smile appeared again.

“Which is impressive, because you didn’t used to think at all when we played this.”

The line landed lightly.

Not cruel.

Just honest.

Lucy took another drink and tipped her chin toward the board.

“Your turn, Tate.”

Her tone carried quiet confidence now.

She wasn’t bothered by the room.

By the watchers.

By the past.

Right now she was exactly where she wanted to be.

Standing under a buzzing dartboard light in a nearly empty Bedford Falls bar.

Beer in hand.

Teaching Cameron Tate — once again — how to lose properly.

Cameron looked down at the dart in his hand when she tapped his fingers into place.

And for one stupid, suspended second, it felt like time folded.

Not in some grand, aching way. Just in that sharp, quiet way memory sometimes arrived—through something small. Her voice going matter-of-fact on him. The light touch at his hand. The familiar certainty of Lucy correcting him like she’d long ago decided it was her civic duty to save him from himself whenever possible.

You always try to muscle it.

His mouth tugged before he could help it.

“Sounds like a broader personality critique,” he said, low.

But there was no sting in it. If anything, he liked hearing her talk to him like that again. Easy. Direct. Like this really was just a game and she trusted the moment enough to forget herself into honesty.

Then she threw.

Inner ring.

Of course.

Cameron let out a quiet breath through his nose and watched her nod at the board like the dart had simply gone where it belonged. No performance. No gloating. Just Lucy being annoyingly competent at something she’d decided mattered for the next five minutes.

And God, he liked this.

Not because she was beating him. Though she absolutely was.

Because she was here with him, steady and dry and self-possessed, beer in hand, showing him how not to screw up a dart throw like it was the most natural thing in the world. Because for once he wasn’t trying to get something out of the moment besides the moment itself.

She showed him again—same throw, same loose wrist, same easy precision—and he watched closer this time. Actually watched. Not the way he used to at seventeen, half listening and half waiting to charm his way through whatever he hadn’t bothered to learn. This time he paid attention.

By the time she leaned back beside him and told him he was thinking too much, Cameron laughed—real and low.

“Now that,” he said, turning the dart once between his fingers, “feels like slander.”

He lifted his beer for a quick sip, then handed it off to the shelf and stepped back up to the line.

The bar had narrowed around the dartboard light. Everything else felt farther away now—the bartender, the two idiots down the bar, the jukebox scratching out something old and twangy and soft. It was just the board, the dart in his hand, Lucy at his shoulder, and the faint warm buzz in his bloodstream taking the hard edges off everything.

He set his feet.

Looked at the board.

Then at the dart again.

Loosen up here.

His fingers shifted, not into some exaggerated mimic of her grip, but close. Closer. He rolled his shoulders once, slower this time, then glanced sideways at her.

“Yes, coach.”

The line came easy, almost fond.

Then he looked forward again and threw.

Thunk.

Better.

Not center. Not elegant. But cleaner than before.

Cameron stared at the dart for a second, then turned his head toward Lucy with his brows slightly raised like even he was a little surprised.

“Well, hell.”

He took a step back, looked from the board to his hand like they’d worked out a private deal behind his back.

“Look at that. Growth and development.” His mouth pulled to one side. “Really inspiring stuff.”

He reached for his beer again and leaned back against the wall beside her, shoulder loose, one ankle crossing over the other. He was grinning a little now, not because he thought he was winning—he definitely wasn’t—but because the whole thing had settled into something he could actually enjoy without trying to control it.

That was new. Or maybe just forgotten.

He glanced toward the bar for half a second and caught one of the guys down there looking over again before pretending not to.

Cameron looked away just as fast.

Didn’t care.

Let them wonder. Let them build whatever harmless little version of this they wanted in their heads.

He had Lucy leaning against the wall beside him explaining dart mechanics like she hadn’t spent years avoiding any room that held him too long, and that was enough. More than enough, really.

He tipped his head slightly toward the board.

“So if I’m learning and evolving under your extremely patient guidance,” he said, “I assume that makes this a mentorship situation.”

His tone stayed light, but there was warmth behind it now, the kind that came when he was fully relaxed and no longer trying to guard every sentence before it left his mouth.

“Do I get a certificate at the end, or just public humiliation?”

He pushed off the wall again long enough to collect the darts from the board, handing hers back by the dull ends, careful like before. When his fingers brushed the metal near hers, he kept it simple. No pause. No significance. Just the small respect of not making anything out of what didn’t need it.

Then he stepped back into his place beside her and took another drink.

For a moment he just watched the board.

Then, quieter—

“You know,” he said, “I think this is the first time in a long time I’ve let myself be bad at something in front of you without wanting to fix it immediately.”

That one surprised him a little. But once it was out, it felt right.

He glanced at her, expression easier now, buzz-warm and open in a grounded kind of way.

“Probably healthy.”

A beat.

“Humbling, sure. But healthy.”

The corner of his mouth lifted again.

“And before you say it, no—I’m not turning that into a whole emotional event.”

He held up one hand like he was preemptively surrendering.

“Just making an observation. Apparently I’m allowed one.”

Then he took the next dart, spun it once between his fingers, and looked back at the board.

He could feel it clearly now, the shape of the night settling in his chest: he’d always love her. Maybe that would never stop being true. But he wasn’t standing here trying to drag that truth into every conversation like it needed to be named to matter.

Tonight she was here. With him. As friends, or something close enough to count. And he had no intention of being the one to wreck that by asking for more than she was offering.

So he stayed where she’d left the line.

He threw again.

Thunk.

Not bad.

A laugh slipped out of him as he looked at where it landed.

“Okay,” he said, pointing at the board with the neck of his beer bottle. “Now that one had character.”

He turned back to her, grin crooked and unguarded.

“Your move, Corbett.”

And when he said it this time, there was no ache under it trying to become anything else.

Just Cameron, a little buzzed, in a nearly empty Bedford Falls bar, getting beat at darts by the girl he’d probably love forever—and having a genuinely good time anyway.

Lucy watched his dart land and stay.

For a moment she didn’t say anything. She just followed the path of it with her eyes, the faint hum of the dartboard light buzzing overhead while the room stayed quiet around them. The jukebox dragged out another soft verse of something old and country, the kind of song that didn’t demand attention but filled the empty corners of the bar anyway.

Then she glanced sideways at him.

Her mouth curved.

Not the small guarded one from earlier in the night — this one stayed a little longer.

“Look at that,” she said, pushing lightly off the wall.

Her voice carried a bit more warmth now.

“You might actually be learning something.”

Lucy took another sip of her beer before setting the bottle down on the narrow shelf beneath the dartboard. The glass made a soft tap against the wood. Her fingers lingered there for a second before she reached for the darts he’d just pulled from the board.

She rolled one between her fingers while she stepped up to the line.

The bar had shrunk down to just this little pocket of light around the dartboard now. The rest of the room felt distant — the bartender finishing up his slow end-of-night routine, the two guys at the bar pretending they weren’t watching every now and then.

Lucy noticed them again in the corner of her eye.

She didn’t care.

Not tonight.

Her attention returned to the board.

She stood comfortably — one foot slightly forward, shoulders loose, the dart resting lightly between her fingers the way she’d shown him earlier. No tension in her wrist, no dramatic pause.

Just Lucy.

She glanced sideways at him once before throwing.

“Don’t let it go to your head though,” she said casually.

The dart left her fingers.

Thunk.

Inner ring.

Lucy exhaled softly through her nose, a small satisfied sound escaping her before she caught herself. She tilted her head toward the board like she was double-checking the placement, then gave a small nod.

“Yeah,” she said.

“That’ll do.”

When she turned back toward Cameron, the smile was still there — easy now, less guarded than it had been earlier in the night.

She stepped forward to retrieve the dart, pulling it free with a soft pop before walking back toward him again.

“You know,” she said, twirling the dart absently between her fingers, “for someone who used to hate losing this much…”

Her eyes flicked up to his briefly.

“You’re handling it surprisingly well.”

The line carried a hint of teasing now.

Lucy leaned her shoulder against the wall again beside him, close enough that the warmth of another person existed but without touching — the same respectful distance they’d been keeping all night.

She took another sip of her beer, then nodded toward the board.

“And no,” she added, a small grin forming now, “you don’t get a certificate.”

Her gaze drifted back to where his last dart had landed.

“But if you keep improving like that…”

She lifted the dart and handed it back to him carefully by the dull end.

“…I might stop embarrassing you quite as much.”

Lucy stepped aside again, giving him room at the line.

Then she leaned back against the wall, arms folding loosely while she watched him with a calm, slightly amused expression.

The edge of her smile stayed there now.

Not big.

Just enough to say she was actually enjoying herself.

And under the quiet buzz of the dartboard light and the soft hum of the jukebox, Lucy Corbett looked perfectly content doing exactly what she said this was going to be from the beginning.

Just darts.

Just a game.

And for the first time all night, she wasn’t holding the moment at arm’s length anymore.

Lucy stayed where she was against the wall after handing him the dart.

Her arms folded loosely across her midsection again, beer bottle resting lightly in the crook of her elbow while she watched him step up to the line. The dartboard light buzzed faintly overhead, casting a warm circle over the worn rings of the board and the scuffed wooden floor beneath it.

For a second she didn’t look at the dartboard at all.

She looked at him.

Not in a lingering, sentimental way — just the quiet observation she’d always been good at. The way he rolled his shoulders before throwing, like he was preparing for something bigger than a simple dart game. The small smirk that appeared when he hit a decent shot. The way he’d loosened up since earlier in the night.

Lucy noticed those things.

She always had.

When the dart left his hand and hit the board with another solid thunk, Lucy lifted one brow slightly.

“Okay,” she said, nodding once toward the board.

“That one was respectable.”

Her tone held that faint approval again.

She pushed herself off the wall then, stepping forward to retrieve the darts while Cameron took a sip of his beer. The room had grown even quieter now — the bartender had started stacking stools at the far end of the bar, and the two guys who’d been watching earlier were finally settling their tab.

Lucy reached up and pulled the darts free one by one.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

Each one slid easily from the cork board.

When she stepped back again, she paused for a moment beside Cameron before taking her place at the line again. The warmth from the beer buzz had settled comfortably through her chest now, loosening the careful edges she’d held earlier in the night.

Not gone.

Just… softer.

She rolled the dart between her fingers and glanced sideways at him.

“You know,” she said, voice thoughtful but light, “if you’d listened this closely when we were sixteen, you might’ve saved yourself a lot of grief.”

The tease carried a quiet smile behind it.

Lucy looked back to the board and lifted the dart again.

Her posture stayed relaxed — shoulders loose, elbow steady. The dart sat lightly between her fingers, exactly the way she’d shown him earlier.

She threw.

Thunk.

Outer ring this time.

Lucy tilted her head toward the board, studying it for a second before shrugging lightly.

“Alright,” she said.

“Still counts.”

She stepped forward to pull it free, then turned back toward Cameron with the dart in hand. Her expression had warmed noticeably now — the guarded distance from earlier in the evening replaced by something easier.

Not nostalgic.

Just comfortable.

She handed him the dart again, careful with the dull end.

“Your turn.”

Her smile returned, small but genuine.

“Let’s see if the student’s ready to impress the coach.”

Then Lucy leaned back against the wall beside him again, lifting her beer for another sip while she watched him step up to the board.

Outside the bar windows, Bedford Falls had gone quiet in that familiar small-town way — streetlights glowing, the last cars drifting down Main Street, the night settling in around the town like it always did.

And inside the bar, under the humming dartboard light, Lucy Corbett looked perfectly content finishing a game she had every intention of winning.

Cameron caught the warmth in her voice before he caught anything else.

Not because she was laying it on thick—Lucy never did—but because he knew the difference. Knew the shift between polite and amused, between careful and actually here. And standing under the dartboard light with a beer in one hand and her calling one of his shots respectable like she was reluctantly rewarding a house-trained dog, he felt it land in the best possible place.

He grinned at the board, then glanced back at her.

“Respectable,” he repeated. “That’s huge for me, coming from you.”

The line came easy, bright around the edges. He took the dart she handed back to him and rolled it once between his fingers, feeling the weight of it settle. Her comment about listening at sixteen earned a low laugh out of him, head tipping back for a second.

“Yeah, well,” he said, stepping into place again, “sixteen-year-old me was operating with the confidence of a guy who’d never been properly humbled.”

He looked at the board, then down at the dart.

Loosen up here.

Don’t throw it like a baseball.

He adjusted his grip the way she’d shown him—lighter this time, less force in his wrist, less need to muscle the thing into submission like it owed him something.

Then he threw.

Thunk.

A decent hit. Better than decent, honestly. Not center, not pretty enough to brag about forever, but solid. The kind of throw that would’ve gotten him smug two rounds ago.

Now he just looked at it, then at Lucy, and his smile turned crooked.

“Well, hell.”

He lifted his beer slightly toward her.

“That one’s all you.” His tone softened into something genuine beneath the charm. “Couldn’t have done it without the coaching.”

And he meant it. No wink buried under it, no trick. Just credit where it was due.

He stepped back from the line and took a sip, eyes drifting past the dartboard toward the bar where the bartender was now very obviously in the final stretch of closing. Stools going up. Register count starting. Last-call energy without the announcement.

Cameron looked back at the board, then at the handful of darts in Lucy’s hand.

An idea hit him all at once—simple, stupid, fun.

His brows lifted.

“Okay,” he said, straightening a little. “Official closing time’s sneaking up on us, so I got a proposal.”

He reached for the darts she’d just pulled free and sorted through them until he found two different colors. He kept one for himself and held the other out to her, pinched carefully by the dull end.

“One last shot each,” he said. “Same time.”

His mouth tipped into that easy, boyish half-grin that always showed up when he was on the verge of suggesting something he fully intended to enjoy whether it worked or not.

“Closest to center claims victory.” A beat. “No arguing, no recount, no dramatic press conference after.”

He held her gaze a second, then added, lighter:

“And before you ask—yes, I know this is me trying to make my inevitable defeat feel more cinematic.”

The grin stayed.

“If I’m gonna lose, I’d at least like it to look cool.”

He waited for her to take the dart, and when she did, he moved into place beside her without crowding, shoulder near enough to share the pocket of light but not enough to close the space they’d kept all night.

It felt natural now. That was the dangerous word for it, maybe. Or maybe just the nicest.

Cameron looked ahead at the dartboard, then sideways at Lucy once.

“On three?” he asked.

He didn’t wait long enough for a whole negotiation, just enough to catch her expression, then lifted his dart.

“One…”

The room around them had gone nearly still. The bartender clinked a glass somewhere behind them. Outside, a car rolled past slow on Main Street. The jukebox hummed low and dusty through the end of a song.

“Two…”

His grip stayed loose this time, exactly where she’d told him to keep it. He could feel the beer buzz warming the edges of everything, but his hand was steady.

Then he smiled, eyes still on the board.

“Try not to cry when I steal this from you, Corbett.”

And on three, he threw.

Lucy watched the idea form on his face before he even said it.

It showed the same way it always had—first in his eyes, then in the slight lift of his brows like he’d just thought of something clever and was deciding whether or not to share it. For a second she just stood there with the darts in her hand, beer resting lightly against her palm, listening while he laid out his “proposal.”

One last shot.

Same time.

Closest to center.

Lucy tilted her head slightly while he spoke, the corner of her mouth tugging upward in a quiet, knowing way.

Of course he’d want to make the ending cinematic.

Some things about Cameron Tate had apparently survived time, college baseball, and whatever growing up he’d done in the years since.

Still… it was harmless.

And honestly?

Kind of fun.

So instead of answering right away, Lucy lifted the beer bottle to her lips and took the last long drink. The Corona had gone a little warm, but the lime still sat sharp on the edge of the glass. She tipped the bottle back until it was empty, then lowered it and set it gently on the narrow shelf beneath the dartboard.

The empty bottle made a soft clink beside his.

Lucy nodded once.

“Alright,” she said simply.

Her voice carried a small smile now.

She reached forward and took the dart he offered her by the dull end, turning it once between her fingers while she stepped up beside him under the warm circle of light.

The bar had nearly finished closing around them.

The bartender was stacking the last few stools upside down on the tables, moving slower now but watching just enough to know when to shoo them out. The neon beer signs hummed quietly behind the counter, casting faint reflections across the polished wood.

Lucy stood next to Cameron at the line, shoulder close but not touching.

For a moment she glanced sideways at him.

Not the boy she’d dated.

Not the one she’d once built whole futures around in her head.

Just Cameron.

Older. Quieter. A little humbler than he used to be.

And currently very determined not to lose this dart throw.

Lucy almost laughed.

He started counting.

“One…”

She lifted the dart, elbow loose the way she’d shown him earlier.

“Two…”

Lucy focused on the board, steady and calm.

The game was already won. She knew that.

But she still liked finishing things properly.

When he said three, both darts left their hands.

Two soft thunks echoed off the cork board.

Lucy lowered her arm first.

She didn’t rush forward to check.

She just glanced up at the board.

Her dart had landed closer.

Not dramatically.

But clearly enough.

Lucy exhaled a small breath through her nose, something between satisfaction and amusement. Then she stepped forward, pulling both darts free one at a time before turning back toward him.

“Mm,” she said lightly.

“Looks like you’re still in training.”

The smile that followed was warmer now, no edge to it.

She handed him his dart back, then reached up and gave his shoulder a quick, friendly pat—easy, casual, the way you would after a good game.

“Next time, Cam,” she said.

Her voice carried a hint of teasing kindness.

“You’ll be okay though.”

Lucy picked up the empty bottle from the shelf and gave the dartboard one last glance before stepping away from the line. The bar lights were dimming a little now, the bartender clearly ready to lock up any minute.

She looked back at Cameron once, that small smile still lingering.

Not nostalgic.

Not heavy.

Just… pleasant.

A good end to a game.

And for tonight, that was more than enough.