A hand-lettered sandwich board for the sidewalk? Is that too personal?
The thought stalls out, stuck somewhere between a chalkboard sign with her shop’s name curling across it and the idea of her rolling her eyes at me for overstepping.
I drag a hand down my face and reach for the switch above the bar. Last lights. Then I can lock up and go home and lie awake, continuing to think about her. Like every night.
That’s when I hear two sharp raps against the front door glass.
I freeze, hand hovering over the switch. We’re closed. The street’s dead quiet—no late diners drifting by, no cabs idling at the corner. Who the hell’s at the door now? At this hour?
My shoulders tense, the old instincts stirring—the ones that tell me to check, to be ready, just in case. A bar, even a nice one, can draw all kinds, and trouble doesn’t always look like trouble from the outside.
Slowly, I step out from behind the bar. Boots cautious against the tile as I move toward the front, every muscle tight. My eyes flick across the windows first, scanning the sidewalk. Empty. A moth flutters against the neon hops cone in the corner, wings ticking at the glass.
I edge closer until I can see the silhouette on the other side of the door.
Not a stranger. Not some drunk late for last call.
It’s Paige.
My heart jolts, too fast, too hard. For a second, I think I imagined her, that I wanted it so badly my brain conjured her shape out of the shadows.
But no—she’s really there. The glow from the streetlamp paints her in a pale halo, hair loose, arms crossed tight over her chest like she’s bracing against the night. Her eyes find mine through the glass, even with the glare from the neon sign.
What the hell is she doing here?
And so late.
I’m already moving before I can think better of it. My hand closes around the deadbolt as I twist, heavy metal cool against my palm.
The door creaks as it opens, and the cool night air pushes into the warm, beer-scented bar. My throat feels dry, words caught somewhere between my chest and my mouth.
“Paige,” I manage, low, rough. “What are you doing here? It’s so late. Come in.”
She looks up at me from the threshold, eyes sharp but tired, mouth pressed into a thin line.
For half a second, neither of us moves, and all I can think is that I dreamed this exact moment a hundred times.
“Come in,” I repeat. I step back and pull the door wider.
She hesitates half a beat, then slips past me. Cool night air follows her, then the door settles and the bar’s warmth closes in again. I flip the deadbolt.
“It’s late,” I repeat, because my mouth insists on filling the quiet with literally anything. “Is everything okay? What’s wrong?”
She shrugs, arms still folded. “Not really tired.”
“Yeah.” I drag a hand over the back of my neck. “I know that one.”
Awkward lands between us. I gesture toward the bar. “You want to sit?”
She nods and takes the end stool closest to the door, like she’s leaving herself an exit. I stay behind the counter because if I stand next to her, I’m going to forget every line we drew and set them all on fire.
“What can I get you? Water? Tea? Beer…” I trail off. Her face is a shade paler than usual, and there are stress lines around her mouth. “I’ve got ginger ale. Or coffee.”
“Ginger ale,” she says, too fast, then her voice softens. “Please.”
I nod like this is the most normal request I’ve had all week. I grab a clean glass from under the bar, pour ice into it, and fill it with the soda gun before sliding it in front of her.
She picks it up carefully and takes a slow sip.
