Chapter Text
It is a universally acknowledged truth that a single woman in her thirties, in possession of a comfortable bank account and an thriving career, must be in want of whatever makes her happiest.
Travel, you’ve done it. Europe, most of the Americas, even a little corner of Asia. Food, you’ve eaten your way through every good restaurant in the city and signed up for culinary tours on every continent that would have you. And as a result, you now find yourself in possession of one of the most crowded refrigerators imaginable, covered in magnets of every shape, color, and meaning. There’s even one from the Red Light District in Amsterdam, your latest souvenir and arguably your most questioned one.
You could, theoretically, focus on your career. Though it’s already perched at the highest point it can reach right now, and wanting another promotion so soon would be ambitious even for you. It’s been, what, three months since Erica promoted you from assistant editor to editor? And, to be honest, you still haven’t taken down the banner Jules and Charlie hung in your living room to celebrate.
That might be because of your impossibly busy schedule (lie) or because that night was the last one you and Charlie spent together (truth).
You’ve never thought of yourself as a melancholic person. But there’s a certain ache stitched into that white banner with its pink letters and silver stars. You could call it the last loving thing he ever did for you, though, if you’re being fair, it was probably Jules who painted the letters and made sure it was straight. At most, he might’ve been the one who brought the ice cream and takeout from the little chinese place around the corner.
Still, the banner remains; hanging above your pristine new sofa like a piece of overly cheerful decor that yells in your face every time you walk through the door: Congratulations! We love you, Jules and Charlie.
You’re going to take it down tonight. Fold it neatly, too neatly, into several sections and tuck it somewhere out of sight, somewhere it can’t bother you. Then you’ll uncork a bottle of wine and sink into the sofa to watch another episode of that true crime show you recently found on Netflix. That’s how easy your nights are to plan now that Charlie’s gone.
He’d be furious if he could hear that thought. He’d accuse you of being heartless, of moving on too quickly. And honestly, given how much you’ve been thinking about him this week, “moved on” might be a bit of an overstatement.
But that was Charlie for you. He hated how practical you were, and you couldn’t stand how sentimental he could be. Some things you simply overlook in the early years of a relationship, until you can’t anymore. Until one day you stop cold and ask yourself the question you’ve been avoiding: Is this actually going anywhere?
Right. Option three: focus on the big, blinding reason your relationship went down the drain: having a baby.
It’s not like Charlie ever said no outright. His exact words were something like, “It’s just not the right time yet.” And sure, you could wait. You did wait. You would’ve kept waiting if he’d asked you to. But the conversation got heavier every time you had it, until he finally admitted he didn’t see himself as a father... ever.
A beautiful way to end a seven-year relationship: realizing you never actually wanted the same things and accepting that sometimes that’s just it. There’s nothing to fix.
Which is why, now, you’re spending your work hours googling info about in vitro fertilization and adoption. Because you’re done putting your life on pause for a man; especially one who lied for years about the future he pretended to want with you.
Not anymore.
Three months later
“If you want one so badly, you can have Noah. God knows I could use a break. He’s potty trained now, by the way.”
You shot Taylor a grin as the three of you walked down the street. The sun was long gone and the city was gleaming in its neon lights.
The girls had spent most of the afternoon listening to you spiral, in great detail, about how you were this close to officially pursuing artificial insemination. No one really understood how absurdly expensive (emotionally and financially) the whole ordeal was.
Well… they definitely did now.
After hours of your passionate monologue, they’d earned the right to tease you as they strolled toward the bar where Lola’s new boyfriend’s band was set to play.
“Tell him congrats from me. And sure, I’d take him in a heartbeat, but we both know he wouldn’t last a day without you.”
“You’re right,” she said, smiling. “I’m raisin' a mama’s boy.”
“Careful,” Lola chimed in, walking beside her. “You don’t want one of those. They grow up to be full grown men with Oedipus issues.”
“Oh, God forbid,” Taylor said, shaking her head. “I’m having a margarita tonight.”
“Oh, I need something stronger,” you said, adjusting your bag on your shoulder and glancing at Lola, who was glued to her phone. “So, where did you meet this Carly guy?”
“Met him at my sister’s clinic. He was in the waiting room.”
Lola’s sister was a dentist. A really good one, according to her.
“And how do you know he’s not a creep?” Taylor asked as you rounded the corner and the bar came into view. “How well do you actually know him?”
“We had a few dates, okay? He seems like a decent guy,” Lola said, looking at both of you. “You know I’ve got a good eye for these things.”
Taylor snorted. “These things? You mean men?”
“Exactly.”
According to Lola, Carly's band was really good and this bar, The Crow, was very cute too and not far from your apartment. You’d never been there, though.
The door swung open as Lola pushed inside, and the noise of a packed Friday night crashed into you. It was cute, definitely, in that mismatched way: warm string lights, vintage liquor signs, and probably a dozen other details you failed to register because you were too busy scanning for an empty table. After an entire day at work in the brand new heels you’d impulsively broken out this morning, your feet were staging a protest.
“There,” you pointed, and Lola grabbed your hand before you could even take a step, dragging you toward the table.
Originally, you’d planned on saying no to this whole outing. It had been a long, emotionally heavy week. And also, there was a new vintage dress in your closet that deserved better than staying home. Taylor sealed the deal when she warned that if you bailed, Lola would run off with her new guy, leaving her tragically alone at the bar and forced to go home early. And God forbid she go home early. Her husband was with their kid, and she hadn’t had a night out in ages. And honestly? A little distraction wouldn’t kill you either.
In the last few weeks, you’d gotten dangerously close to fully committing to the whole plan. You’d read every study, scouted every clinic within a reasonable radius, and made what felt like the final call. Of course, that didn’t make any of it easier. Or less terrifying. But well...
“I’m gonna go say hi. Two seconds,” Lola announced, already sprinting toward the tiny stage where a pack of guys were untangling cables and looking casual about it. Beards just shaggy enough, hair just tousled enough, like they woke up effortlessly cool.
“I feel a little too old for this, babe,” Taylor said as she sank into the chair across from you, watching out of the corner of her eye while Lola wrapped Carly up in a hug.
You followed her gaze and bit the inside of your cheek. “Not true. No one here looks under twenty five.”
“And not over forty.”
You swung your attention back to her. “You’re not even over forty.”
“Oh, no, but I’m thirty seven, which is practically the same thing. Give me two years and perimenopause will come for me like a debt collector.” She propped her chin on her hand, elbow on the table. “Every woman in my family hits menopause by forty. My mom started at thirty nine. Tragically ahead of schedule, if you ask me.”
You nodded. “My mom was fifty. According to her it was hell.”
“Well, you’ve got genetics on your side. And I’ve heard that afterward, plenty of women feel like, like reborn or something. Sky high libido and everything.”
“Isn’t that during?” You frowned. “I thought that’s why there are so many, ugh, geriatric pregnancies. I hate that term.”
“Geriatric pregnancy?”
“Yes. Geriatric. Why geriatric?” You waved a hand. “Is a forty year old woman suddenly ancient? I’m convinced a man came up with that.”
“Like the damn speculum.”
“Yeah, what the hell. After thirty five you go from fertile goddess to geriatric case study, what kind of nonsense is that?”
Taylor clicked her tongue. “They’re just labels. My sister had my niece at forty three.”
You leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Sure, I know. I mean, did you know that physically, pregnancy after forty has real risks? And whatever,” you said, lifting a hand, “but the logic is still ridiculous!”
“Why?” Taylor laughed.
“Well,” you started, “apparently the ideal age to have kids is twenty five, right? Biologically speaking.” You tilted your head. “But what about literally everything else? Jobs, school, rent? The modern world is absolutely not designed for modern twenty five year olds to be raising babies.”
“And for the record, being forty doesn’t guarantee you’re any more put together.”
“I draw the line at thirty.” You made a sweeping gesture. “If you’re lucky, you have a decent job, or a job, period. And your frontal lobe has finally finished developing, which has to count for something, right? I mean, if we're speaking—okay, enough. No more baby talk. What are you drinking?”
Taylor was still laughing when you slid out of your chair and brushed a hand over your cheek.
“A margarita if they’ve got one. Otherwise a beer.”
“Got it,” you said, already turning toward the bar, when a hand caught your arm. Lola was there, wearing a lovestruck grin.
“Hey, where are you going?”
“To get drinks. Want something?”
“A beer. Should I go with you?”
“No, no,” you waved her off, “settle in. I’ll be right back.”
You turned and smoothed a hand over your stomach, the soft mesh of your new dress gliding under your fingertips.
Sure, this might not have been the most reasonable venue to debut a vintage piece of tulle like this, let alone John Galliano. But whatever. Clothes are meant to be worn, not archived for mythical perfect occasions. Besides, it wasn’t like this could possibly be worse than the time you went grocery shopping in a The Row dress and baptized it in chocolate milkshake.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked, one palm pressed against the counter as he leaned in a little.
You tilted your head. “Um, one margarita, one beer, and for me…” You squinted at the menu, though you weren’t actually reading it. “What’s the strongest thing you’ve got?”
He laughed. “One of those nights?”
You grinned. “Not really. I just want, need something strong. But also sweet. Got anything that fits the brief?”
He considered you for a beat. “With your vibe? I could make ya a Cosmo.”
Your brows shot up. “Seriously?”
“Sure.” He gave a small nod. “Cosmo. Or, if you’re in the right mood, I’ve got a great Jack Daniel’s Honey that might treat you right.”
“Okay, yeah,” you said, decisive for once. “Let’s start with the Cosmo.”
He gave a little salute, tapping two fingers against his temple. “Got it.”
“Thanks…?”
“Tommy.”
“Right. Thanks, Tommy.”
“They’re so good, right? Aren’t they good? Carly is so good!” Lola beamed, riding the high of at least three drinks. You loved seeing her like this. She was sweet on a regular day; drunk, she became the human embodiment of a ultra processed cupcake.
The band kept playing, and yeah, they were actually pretty great. You’d caught yourself nodding along more than once, though you could easily blame your loosened state on the two cosmopolitans currently warming your bloodstream. Honestly, you were dangerously close to ordering a third… or finally testing that whiskey Tommy the bartender had suggested.
Raised voices pulled your attention to the hallway near the bathrooms. Two guys were mid argument, one flailing his hands. The other jabbed a finger into his chest, which only made the first guy go red hot nuclear.
“Babe,” Lola said, tapping your arm. You turned back to her. “Your phone.”
You looked down to see it buzzing on the table, screen lit up with an incoming call from Jules.
“Oh, be right back,” you said, grabbing your phone and sliding out of your seat.
You made for the exit, hearing the bar fight escalate behind you. Some glass shattering, a few voices raising, but only stole a single glance before pushing through the door. Nothing, not even a juicy bar brawl, could pull your attention from talking to your sister.
“Hi? Jules? Can you hear me?” you asked, pressing the phone to one ear, shielding the other with your hand.
“Yeah, yeah. Where are you?”
“Uh, at a bar. The guy Lola’s seeing is playing—” You stopped mid sentence at a strange crackle on the other end. “Hello? Jules?”
“Can you hear me?”
“Barely, I…,” another burst of static, “…Where are you?”
You turned toward the street, people walking past, oblivious to your struggle.
Another woman was on the phone not too far from you, waving her hands around. “No, Frankie, stay close,” she said. “But don’t you dare walk into the bar, okay?”
She laughed, pulling your attention away from your own conversation for a second.
Whatever. Jules. JULES.
“We’re in a cabin… outside the mountain, near… no… signal,” Jules’s voice cut in and out.
You laughed. “I can barely hear anything!”
“I know… just wanted to tell you… can you hear me?”
“When are you coming back? I’ve got my car again, I can pick you up from the airport—”
“No, no… I’m not coming back—”
“What?” You frowned. “What do you mean? Jules?”
You wandered a few steps further from the door, then circled back to hover near it.
“David got us permission to… I’ll tell you when we get down to the city, it’s insane!”
“To where? I didn’t hear you!”
Jules laughed. “I’ll call you tomorrow… I’m heading down to the… can you hear me? I’m going to the city.”
“Okay, well, I… please call me.”
“Yeah, love you… take care. Bye.”
“Jules, wait, what do I tell mom and dad? Have you—” You cut off mid sentence as a hard shove slammed into your back, sending your phone and bag flying, their contents scattering across the sidewalk.
A man. A man had barreled into you, shoved by another. Recognition clicked; the one being pushed was the guy from the fight inside.
“We already had this conversation, Hal,” the other said, pointing a finger. “Don’t fuckin' show up here again or Tommy’s gonna make you pay every cent you owe him and we all know you broke as hell.”
“I don’t give a damn about this dump, you and Tommy are garbage!” the drunk spat back, letting a glob hit the ground.
The other guy snorted and lunged forward, pushing the drunk to spin around and stagger off.
“Don’t you dare show up here again, you stupid drunk asshole!”
The drunk kept running, and the other guy watched him for a few seconds before letting out a tired sigh and turning back.
Then, he stopped when he saw you. His eyes lingered on yours for a moment.
“What?” he asked, and you realized your face was tighter than it had ever been, and all your stuff was still strewn across the sidewalk.
“What do you mean, ‘what?’” you snapped, waving a hand.
He glanced at the mess and clicked his tongue.
“Shit, sorry,” he said, crouching to gather some of it.
“It’s fine, I got it,” you replied immediately, angry, squatting down and grabbing whatever you could. Lipstick, a few stray bills, a mini bottle of your perfume. But he already had a handful of things in his own grip.
You stuffed your bag as fast as possible, then froze. Your phone was sitting in front of a parked car.
When you moved, picked it up and inspected it, your jaw dropped.
“What's wrong?” he asked from behind you.
You turned. He was holding a tiny deodorant and your wallet.
“My phone,” you said, lifting it with a grimace. “It’s completely shattered!”
“Shit,” he muttered. “I’m sorry, let me—”
“It’s fine,” you cut him off, shoving the thing into your bag before he could finish. Without looking at him, you started walking toward the door again.
“Wasn’t on purpose, y’know?”
You stopped dead and turned around. “What?”
“I said it wasn’t on purpose.” He folded his arms. “You were standin’ right in the doorway.”
“I was not standing in the doorway.”
“Sure were. Dead center.” He gestured toward the entrance. “That’s why we bumped into you comin’ out.”
“No, what happened is you kicked that guy out like he was a damn football, so excuse me for not teleporting out of the way.” You crossed your arms. “Do you always throw people out like that?”
He looked at you for a long moment, and you could see it; the tug of amusement threatening the corner of his mouth before it broke into a small, infuriating smile.
He stepped closer, set his hand on the lock, flipped it open, and pulled the door wide.
“Go on,” he said, chin tilted toward the inside. “After you.”
You stared him down, eyes trailing over him from head to toe and back again, knowing damn well you looked judgmental, maybe even a little petty. But you didn’t care. You didn’t even need to check your phone to know it was probably toast.
You pressed your lips together, clutching your bag a little tighter as you stepped back inside the bar. But suddenly, you slowed down almost immediately, aware of the stranger walking in right behind you, and for some reason, you let yourself feel it for a second. His nearness. Just because.
But then, he walked past you, and by the time you started toward your table and glanced over your shoulder, he was already heading to the bar. His eyes caught yours just for a heartbeat, and then he was gone.
When you sat back down, Taylor placed a hand over yours.
“Hey, what happened? You okay?”
“It was Jules.”
“How’s she doing?”
Behind Taylor, Lola was swaying her head in time with the band’s music, smiling at Carly.
“She’s fine. I think. You know, same as always,” you said, leaning closer to Taylor’s ear to be heard over the noise. “She’s not coming back yet.”
“Oof. What’d you say to her?”
“Nothing. What was I supposed to say? The signal was crap, and before I could say anything else, some guy from the bar shoved past me on his way out and knocked my phone down.”
“No shit. Which one?” she asked, frowning and scanning the room.
You laughed. “Doesn’t matter. Jules isn’t coming back.”
“Yet,” she said.
“Yeah. Yet.”
Taylor squeezed your hand.
The band’s set had been really fucking good. And you were being completely honest about that.
When a few of the guys came over to say hi, you didn’t say it out loud, but you did smile when Taylor told them they’d played great. That counted as agreement. Support, even. That was enough, right?
You weren’t in much of a talking mood anyway. It was late, and you had just enough alcohol in your system to turn soft, maybe a little sentimental. You knew that in about an hour the girls would be ready to call it a night. Lola would take off with Carly and Taylor would sigh, say she was tired, and claim she’d hit her limit. So you tried to shake off the weight in your chest and join whatever conversation was going on at the table.
But it wasn’t exactly gripping material. They were talking about guitar strings; different brands, different tones, and one of the guys was going on about his new Fender bass and how he’d swapped out the strings because they “didn’t feel right.” Another one immediately jumped in to ask for the old ones if he wasn’t using them, and you tuned the rest out, folding your arms and letting your eyes drift toward the bar.
Tommy was there, chatting with a blonde whose hair brushed her shoulders, a beer bottle loose in her hand. Next to them, the guy who’d shoved you earlier ran a hand over the back of his neck, right where your gaze had landed.
Oh, funny.
Your eyes lingered, tracing the spot just beneath his hairline where the short curls tapered into a little triangle of skin, sun warmed and golden before disappearing into the collar of his shirt.
His fingers went right there.
And then he turned.
Shit.
You smiled, caught, and looked back at the table, laughing softly to yourself as if you’d been following the conversation the whole time.
Taylor brushed her hand over your arm, leaning closer.
“I think I’m gonna head out,” she said. “You comin’?”
You met Taylor’s eyes, and you could tell she’d already assumed you’d go home with her.
Well, you had two options:
Option one: go home. Take a long, hot shower. Do a hair mask, then a face mask. Eat the pint of ice cream waiting in your freezer for the mythical night you’d stay awake long enough to actually enjoy it; every other night this week you’d fallen asleep with the tv still on. You could finally do your full skincare routine, crawl into bed, and sleep like someone with her life together. Sounded perfect.
Option two: stay. Just for a little while. Try that Jack Daniel’s Honey the bartender had recommended, loosen up a bit, and maybe (just maybe) keep admiring the back of that guy’s neck at the bar.
Who knew what could happen? Something in you whispered that it might be worth finding out.
You smiled. “Nah. Think I’ll stick around a bit longer.”
An hour later, your feet ached too much to keep pretending you were the adventurous type.
Yeah, you were ready to go home. And anyway, the guy at the bar had left a while ago with a redhead, though not before giving you a look as he passed. Weird one, too. Definitely not your night.
Not that you’d been planning anything stupid. Of course not. You’d just gotten curious, that was all. Restless. Like some mischievous little bee had stung you right between the thighs and now you wanted to crash a Dionysian party somewhere.
Was that it? Had Dionysus himself shown up to sting you with the illusion that you were bold enough for a one night stand?
God. Listen to yourself. You were definitely drunk enough.
Lola came over and asked if you wanted a ride back to your building; Carly had the car. But one look at him told you he was far drunker than he’d ever admit, so you shook your head.
“You shouldn’t get in his car either,” you said. “Take a cab. And I mean it, I’m not letting you get in that car. Want to just come home with me?”
Lola shook her head. “No, no. You’re right. We’ll grab a taxi. Want us to drop you off on the way?”
You thought about it for a second. “Sure.”
She smiled, then turned to tap Carly’s wrist and murmur the plan in his ear. He nodded, looked over at you, and smiled before fishing his phone out of his pocket.
Taylor had left a while ago. She’d said she was tired, that she’d had a good time; enough of a good time. She’d hugged you tight, promised coffee on Monday before work, downed the rest of her beer in one go, and left to wait for her taxi right outside exactly where you were standing now, half an hour after Carly had already called for a car that was apparently “delayed due to high demand.”
You’d suggested ordering an Uber, but he’d waved it off. Said he’d already booked the car and wanted to smoke another cig anyway, maybe wait for his band’s lead singer, Van, to finish arguing with his girlfriend on the phone.
Of course.
Now Lola was glued to Carly’s side, all sweet smiles and soft laughter, while you stood next to them with your arms crossed, feeling like the cranky chaperone. You made a mental note to scold Taylor later for ditching you after explicitly asking you not to do the same to her.
And now here you were. Stuck with your friend, her boyfriend, and your bad mood. And no stranger's neck to look at.
“Bye, babe! Text me tomorrow, okay?” Lola shouted from the car window, waving her hand wildly. “Love you! Take care!”
“Love you too! Be safe!” you yelled back, waving just as hard.
Lola laughed as the taxi pulled away, and you watched it disappear down the street before shaking your head with a small smile. You slipped a hand into your bag, fishing around for your keys.
Lipstick. Perfume. Phone. Wallet... ugh.
You sighed, opening your bag wider and peering inside.
No keys.
That couldn’t be right. You’d picked everything up off the ground, hadn’t you? You remembered holding your lipstick, your perfume, the pack of mints, your wallet—
No.
You froze. Maybe he’d picked them up. The guy who’d shoved you.
But wait... he’d helped you gather your stuff too, hadn’t he? You remembered that part. His hands, your things, the half second of awkward eye contact before you turned away and went back into the bar and…
Fuck. You pulled your phone out of your bag and tapped the cracked screen. Nothing. Just black.
You clicked your tongue.
“Come on,” you muttered, pressing the side buttons, swiping at the shattered glass like it might suddenly come to life. “Shit.”
Dead. Completely, hopelessly dead. The screen was cracked, full spiderweb and dark, every button useless.
What the hell were you supposed to do now? Taylor was definitely asleep by this hour. Lola wouldn’t answer. You didn’t have your keys, and even if you did...
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Before you could think twice, you spun around and started walking fast, the panic setting in. If your keys had fallen outside the bar, they’d probably still be there; unless someone else had picked them up. But if someone had picked them up, they’d have turned them in, right? That’s what a decent person would do.
Hey, found these keys outside, figured I’d drop them off in case someone comes looking for them. Logical. Human. Decent.
Were you close already?
Yeah, just one more block, then a turn at the corner, and the bar would be there. Ready to fix your problems. Ready to hand over your keys and let you end the night peacefully (manifesting).
Oh, it was still open. Thank God.
You pushed the door and let out a breath when you saw Tommy still behind the bar. The place was quieter now, the crowd thinned out, but you were just relieved it hadn’t closed yet. You had no idea what time it even was, not like you could check.
RIP to your phone. Three loyal, unbroken years of service, all for it to meet its end at the hands of a drunk and a judgmental stranger. You’d hold a symbolic funeral later; maybe tuck it back in its box and send it floating down a river, thanking it for the endless hours of laughter, videos, memes, and the occasional very questionable late night reading. And it had been pink, too. God, what a loss.
“Hey, long time no see,” Tommy called out with a grin, leaning a little over the bar. “Thought you and your crew left a while ago.”
You pressed your lips together. “We did.”
“Band was good, huh?”
You nodded. “Yeah.”
“The singer’s my cousin,” he said, then lifted a hand. “But for the record, that’s not why I let ’em play here. Don’t mess with that nepotism crap.”
You smiled. “A man of principle. Impressive.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said with mock solemnity. “So, what brings you back?”
You sighed, sliding onto one of the barstools.
“By any chance, did someone turn in a set of keys? Maybe found outside?” You gestured vaguely behind you.
No flicker of recognition. No spark of oh yeah, I’ve got them right here.
FUCK.
“Don’t think so,” he said. “What do they look like?”
“Uh, two keys. A keychain with Snoopy reading a book.”
Tommy chuckled. “Sorry, no Snoopys have made it through my door tonight.”
“Shit.” You propped your chin on your hand, elbow against the bar.
He tilted his head. “Can I ask what happened? You need to call somebody?”
“Yes, please,” you said, straightening up. “A few hours ago I was outside and—”
You stopped midsentence as the very culprit of your disaster walked right past you. Your eyes tracked him as he moved behind the bar, giving Tommy a friendly pat on the back.
Of course.
“Him,” you said, pointing.
“What?” Tommy asked, smiling in confusion.
The man glanced over, brows furrowing. “Me?”
“Yes, you,” you said flatly.
“Me what?”
Tommy laughed. “What’d you do now, Joel?”
Joel. Huh. Fitting.
“I can’t find my keys,” you said, pointing vaguely toward the door. “I’ve been standing outside my building for God knows how long, can’t call anyone because my phone’s completely dead.”
Joel braced both hands on the bar and leaned forward a little. “Look, I said I was sorry. I tried to help you with your phone but you—”
“And what were you gonna do?” you snapped, pulling the shattered device from your bag and dropping it onto the counter.
“Oof,” Tommy muttered, picking it up and tilting it toward the light. “You did this?” he asked Joel.
Joel clicked his tongue and snatched it back. “I didn’t do this. It was an accident.”
“You pushed me.”
“No, I didn’t push you,” he said, setting the phone back down and glancing at Tommy. “You were right in front of the door when I kicked Hal out.”
“Intentional or not, you pushed me. Now my phone’s dead and my keys are gone, and I can’t get into my damn apartment.”
Joel looked at you, silent for a few seconds, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded once, sighed, and stepped back from the bar.
“Alright,” he said finally. Then he rounded the counter, came to your side, and gently took your wrist, guiding you off the stool.
“What are you doing?” you asked, not really pulling away.
“Gonna help you find your keys.”
Joel led you outside, and once the door shut behind you, he let go of your wrist and started moving; bending down, checking under the parked cars while you stood there with your arms crossed, scanning the sidewalk.
“Maybe someone picked them up,” you said.
“Could be. What do they look like?”
“Two keys and a Snoopy keychain.”
Joel turned to you with a small grin.
“What?” you frowned. “What’s with Snoopy?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing,” he said quickly, crouching again to peer under another car.
You sighed and started walking, your eyes darting along every corner, every patch of pavement that might glint in the streetlight. Nothing.
A grunt made you turn. Joel was pushing himself up, brushing off his jeans.
“Sorry, no sign of any Snoopy around here.”
You sighed, rubbing your forehead. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”
“Got anyone you can call?”
“Yeah, my friends. But they’re probably asleep or... busy.”
“Try anyway,” he said, reaching into his pocket.
He pulled out his phone, unlocked it, and handed it to you.
“Thanks,” you murmured, taking it.
You stared at the screen. For a few seconds. Then a few more.
Joel’s brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?”
You looked up at him, dead serious.
“I don’t know their numbers.”
He laughed. “What?”
“I don’t know their numbers. They’re just... saved in my phone, and I never memorized them.”
Joel laughed again, shaking his head. “You don’t know anyone’s number?”
“Well, my parents live two hours away, but I don’t... could you stop laughing?”
“Sorry.”
“Oh, come on,” you huffed. “Don’t tell me you actually memorize people’s phone numbers.”
“No, just the important ones,” he shrugged. “You know… for emergencies.”
You stared at him, unimpressed, and held out his phone. He took it, and a faint smile tugged at his lips.
“Look, I’m sorry,” he said, stepping closer. “Let’s figure this out, alright? I’ve got a toolbox at home. Maybe I can help you open your door or something, if you want.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. I don’t live far, just a couple blocks away,” he said, nodding toward the street. “I can grab it and come back. At least until someone can help you in the morning.”
You hesitated.
Was this insane? Not really. Though it was kind of insane to let a stranger come to your apartment and fiddle with your door in the middle of the night. Who knew what could happen?
Still, Joel didn’t exactly seem shady. He looked like a regular guy, tired maybe, but genuine. And Tommy too.
“Alright,” you said finally. “I’ll take the help.”
Joel nodded once. “Good.”
He turned, pulled the door open, and tilted his head toward the inside. You followed him back in, the warm air of the bar washing over you as the door closed behind.
Tommy looked up the moment you sat back down on the barstool. “Any luck?”
Before you could answer, Joel spoke up; offering a version of events that, conveniently, left out just how much of this was his fault.
Still, Tommy’s expression softened, taking it seriously enough.
“Oh, that sucks. I’m sorry,” Tommy said, frowning as he looked at you. “But you can call someone if you want.”
“She doesn’t know anyone’s number,” Joel said from behind him, arms crossed and a teasing smile tugging at his lips as he leaned a hip against the counter.
You huffed. “Who even knows phone numbers anymore?”
Tommy laughed. “No little address book tucked away in that purse of yours?”
“Everything was on my phone,” you sighed. “And even if I did have one, I wouldn’t bring it to a bar.”
“I told her I’d help,” Joel said, effortlessly popping open a beer. “I’ll go grab my toolbox and get her door open. Then in the morning, someone can take care of it properly.”
You noticed the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he was trying not to grin.
“Are you two friends or something?” you asked suddenly, eyes flicking between them. Both men looked caught off guard by the shift in topic.
“Brothers,” Joel said. “Why?”
Of course. That made sense.
“Ahh, and you’re the older one, right?”
Tommy laughed as he turned to help a woman who had walked up with her wallet in hand, leaving you alone with Joel again.
He took a sip from his bottle, watching you over the rim. Then he set it down, swallowed, and gave a small, amused tilt of his head.
“What makes you think that?”
You smiled, tilting your head. “Am I wrong?”
His gaze lingered a beat too long. Steady, quiet, heavy, and the way it did made something low in your stomach tighten.
He set his bottle aside, pushed off the counter, and moved to stand at the front of the bar, directly across from you.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
Don’t tell him.
“My name?”
Don’t tell him.
“Yeah, your name,” he said, leaning in a little closer, resting his forearms on the counter.
You dropped your gaze.
“Claire,” you lied, too fast. The name was still fresh in your head after finishing Outlander season one last night. Claire. He didn’t need to know your real name.
When you looked back up, his eyes were still on you.
“Claire,” Joel repeated, tasting the sound of it. “You want a drink before I go grab my toolbox?”
“Actually, yeah,” you said with a small smile. “How about that Jack Daniel’s Honey your brother mentioned?”
A low laugh rumbled from his chest as he nodded, moving easily behind the bar. You watched him, broad shoulders, steady hands as he reached for the cream labeled bottle, grabbed a short glass, and set it in front of you.
“Ever tried it before?”
You shook your head. “Never.”
He twisted the cap off. “You usually drink whiskey?”
“Not usually.”
“Can I make you a cocktail, then?”
You lifted an eyebrow. “What kind of cocktail?”
“Well,” he said, leaving the bottle open on the bar, “since you’re not exactly a whiskey drinker, I was thinking the best way to try this one would be with a little lemon and ice. Or lemonade, if you’ll let me.”
“Oh,” you nodded. “Sure. Make it however you want.”
Joel’s mouth curved slightly as he turned away, looking for something behind the counter. Your eyes lingered on his back; on the muscles shifting under his shirt, on his bare forearms, on the bit of skin visible at the back of his neck. He looked strong. Solid. And yet his hands moved with a kind of careful grace, holding the glass with a gentleness that didn’t match the roughness of his fingers.
You watched him drop the ice cubes in, pour the honey colored whiskey over them, and then add just a small splash of lemonade. And when your eyes finally lifted, he was already looking at you, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth as he slid the drink across the counter.
“On the house,” he said.
When you reached for the glass, your fingers brushed his. You waited a beat to see if he’d pull away. He didn’t.
“Claire?”
You lifted your drink to your lips. The music in the bar had slowed to something softer now; the place was still half full, people talking in low voices, laughter breaking here and there. And beside you sat Joel, telling you odd, funny stories about things that had happened in the bar.
He’d told you he didn’t actually work here. Tommy owned the place, and Joel just stopped by sometimes to help out or hang around. During the day, he worked long hours, though he didn’t say doing what. Nights like this, he said, were the only times he could properly unwind. There’s nothing better than a good drink after a long day, he’d added, and you had to admit you were starting to agree.
“Claire?” someone called again. Tommy.
You turned your head one way, then the other, until your eyes landed on Joel, who was already smiling at you.
Oh. Right. Tommy was calling you.
You were Claire.
“Oh, yeah?” you said, blinking.
“I think your phone made a noise,” he nodded toward the counter behind him, where your phone sat plugged into a charger.
“Ah, right.” You placed a hand on Joel’s knee (without really meaning to) as you steadied yourself to slide off the barstool, then made your way over.
It had been Tommy’s idea to try charging your phone. “Maybe it just needs a minute,” he’d said. You’d known it was hopeless, but fine, it was worth a try. So he’d plugged it in, and you’d decided to wait thirty minutes before checking if it had magically resurrected itself. In the meantime, you’d gone back to your drink. And to Joel.
That had been two hours ago.
Now, as your feet touched the ground, it felt like walking on clouds (liquor-heavy clouds) and for a second you wondered just how reliable Joel would actually be when it came to breaking into your apartment. He was probably just as drunk as you were by now. And in your current state, the image of him fumbling with tools at your door was both worrying… and somehow a little funny.
Jesus, maybe it was better to just wait until morning. How long could that be, anyway?
You weren’t that drunk… right? Though it did take you a second to focus on the clock hanging on the wall.
“What time is it?” you asked.
Tommy glanced at his wrist. “One a.m.”
You froze, hand still holding the charger cord. “Really?”
He grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh.” You looked down at your phone again, pressing the side buttons, tapping the cracked screen. Nothing. “And what time do you close?”
“Two.”
“Ah.”
You stared at the device for a while longer. You were stubborn by nature; giving up wasn’t in your DNA. But this time, it wasn’t you giving up. Your phone had. It was gone, completely gone. No amount of electricity could pull it back from the technological underworld.
With a sigh, you unplugged it carefully. “Impossible. It’s gone.”
“Sorry about that,” Tommy murmured as you passed him on your way back to the barstool.
Joel didn’t wait long before reaching out to take the phone from you. He turned it over in his hands like he knew what he was doing, squinting at it, then clicking his tongue like an expert delivering bad news.
“Completely gone,” he said.
“I know,” you said, snatching it back from him. “You have any idea how long we’ve been together, him and me?”
“I’m guessing a while.”
“A long while. And it took forever to find it in this color, you know?” You lifted the phone, showing it to him.
“It’s a nice color,” he said.
“I know. It’s a very nice color.”
He pressed his lips together, then reached out and set his hand on your knee; warm, solid, thick fingers soft on your skin. The touch made your breath catch, even if you tried not to show it.
He smiled a little, one corner of his mouth curving up. “I’m sorry for pushing you. And for making you drop your things, and your phone, Claire.”
Your hand landed on top of his. “Apology accepted, Joel.”
“Alright then,” he said, leaning back a little, “what do you say we go get that door open?”
“I’d like that.”
“Good. I’ll head home for a second, won’t take long. Will you wait here—”
“Do you live far?”
“Two blocks away, to be exact.” He tilted his head, paused. “You wanna come with me?”
Your blurred eyes traced over his face for a moment, stopping briefly at his upper lip, half hidden beneath the mustache that bled into his beard.
Your gaze drifted up to his eyes. “Yes, I’ll come with you.”
“Right,” Joel said, pushing himself back and getting up from the barstool.
You watched him quietly until he extended his hand toward you, helping you down slowly from your seat. When your feet touched the floor, they didn’t ache like before. Well, at least not that much.
You smoothed your hands down the skirt of your dress, straightening it while Joel gestured to Tommy, and he reached under the counter, pulled out a jacket, and slid it across the bar in one smooth motion.
“Heading out already?” he asked.
Joel nodded. “It’s getting late.”
“Are you staying to wait for him, Claire? Or should I say goodbye to both of you?”
You immediately caught the small smile tugging at Tommy’s lips, but maybe you were too drunk to read into it, so you just nodded and waved a little.
“Goodbye, Tommy. Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
You turned, feeling Joel’s hand brush lightly across your upper back; barely there, but enough for you to still feel its warmth as you walked from the bar to the door. Once there, he stepped away to open it, gesturing for you to go ahead.
And just as you predicted a second before stepping out, the brief barely cold Austin air rushed against your legs, sweeping away every bit of comfort you’d had.
You walked beside Joel for a few meters in silence; there were still a few people on the street, a handful of places open and ready to close for the night. You hugged your purse tighter to your body, and a sigh slipped out after a quiet groan.
“What’s wrong?” Joel asked, nudging your arm gently with his elbow.
“What? Why?”
He smiled. “You’ve been sighin’ and groanin’ since we left the bar. You okay?”
“Really? Didn’t notice,” you laughed. “I thought I was doing it internally.”
“Nope, pretty sure it was out loud too,” he chuckled. “So? What’s up?”
You sighed and held his gaze for a moment.
“Nothing, my feet hurt,” you said, glancing down at your shoes. “Wasn’t planning on walking this much.”
“Right, well,” Joel looked down too. “They don’t look too comfortable.”
“They’re not, but they’re cute, don’t you think?”
He laughed. “Yeah, they are.”
You smiled and lowered your gaze again, focusing on the sidewalk ahead, trying not to trip on anything. You sighed, crossing your arms as a shiver ran through you.
Joel clicked his tongue beside you, a low laugh rumbling from his chest.
“Alright, hold up,” he said, touching your arm.
You stopped and turned to face him. Then he turned his back to you, hand resting against it.
“C’mon, hop on,” he said, a teasing glint in his eyes.
“What?” you laughed.
“Get on my back. You can’t keep walkin’ like that. You’ll hurt yourself.”
“Um, sure, but with this dress… I’ll probably flash my ass to half the neighborhood.”
“Say no more,” he replied, taking off his jacket and holding it open at your sides. “Arms up.”
You obeyed, and Joel wrapped the jacket around your waist, tying the sleeves snugly in front of you. When he finished, he patted your arm softly.
“There. Better. You ready to climb on now?”
You smiled. “Yeah.”
“Alright, c’mon.”
Joel crouched down, and you placed your hands on his shoulders before jumping lightly, settling onto his back. His hands found your thighs, adjusting you higher as he straightened up, and you wrapped your arms around his neck, laughing under your breath as he started walking.
“Don’t drop me,” you murmured near his ear. “And if I’m too heavy, I can get down.”
“I ain’t droppin’ you. I’m a skilled drunk,” he said, giving your legs a squeeze.
“You’re not cold?”
“Nope. You are? Is not cold.”
“Yeah, not really.”
You squeezed his shoulders gently, resting your cheek against the side of his face, close to his ear, and let him carry you the short distance to his place.
Joel hadn’t lied about not living far from the bar. That was true. But his apartment wasn’t two blocks away, it was three. He lived in a small, charming building you entered by climbing a short set of stairs and through a dark blue door with a glass panel in the middle. When you told him the place was lovely, he gave a shy little “thanks” and mentioned he’d been living there for almost three years.
Once inside, Joel led you toward the staircase
“Just three floors up to my place. Go on, climb back up,” he said, motioning for you to get on his back again.
“Joel, no. Absolutely not. I can walk up the stairs.”
“Aw, come on, it’s nothin’,” he laughed.
“And what if we fall? You really wanna tumble down three floors of stairs?”
“We’re not gonna fall. Told you, I’m skilled. Don’t you trust me?”
You smiled sideways. “Can I? I mean, to be fair, I’ve only known you for a couple of hours.”
He laughed. “That’s true.”
“You could very well be a psychopath, and I wouldn’t even know.”
“Do I look like a psychopath to you?”
You looked at him in silence for a moment, your eyes scanning his and the faint curve of his mouth.
“No, not really,” you said, placing your hand on his shoulder to guide him as he turned around. “Though, there’s always that tiny bit of doubt, isn’t there?”
Joel turned, settling into position so you could climb onto his back again. Once you did, he gripped your ankle and said,
“What if you’re the psychopath?”
“Well,” you leaned closer to his face, tightening your hold around him as he started up the stairs, “then you’re completely screwed, because now I know where you live. In fact, you’re carrying me straight to your apartment.”
Joel laughed. “Well, there are worse ways to die, huh? But I know you’re not a psychopath, no psychopath would ever say that.”
“That’s true,” you laughed. “Or maybe I’d say exactly that to confuse you, make you think I’m not a psychopath.”
“I wouldn’t mind dying at your hands,” he said with a grin. “Lately, the routine’s been wearing me down. A change would be nice.”
“A change?”
“A good long rest.”
You smiled. “Ah, so you’re a pessimist.”
Joel pulled you a little closer, giving a small bounce to adjust your weight. By your count, there were still two floors left.
“People usually say I’m more of a grump.”
You laughed. “You’re not a grump. You’re the older brother.”
“Oh yeah? And what makes you so sure it’s that and not that I’m just an asshole?”
“Well,” you said, glancing down at his chest over his shoulder, “I can tell an older brother when I see one. There’s a certain… vibe, don’t you think?”
“You’re the oldest, huh?”
“Yeah, seven year gap.”
“Little brother or little sister?”
“Little sister,” you sighed. “What about you and Tommy? How many years between you two?”
“Five.”
“That’s about what I figured.”
“And you have more siblings, or just a younger sister?”
“Just her. Jules. I was talking to her when my phone went flying.”
Joel chuckled. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s fine, the signal was bad anyway,” you laughed softly. “She’s up in the mountains somewhere.”
“The mountains?”
“Yeah. She’s been traveling for two months now. She was supposed to come back last month but pushed it back, and tonight she said she’s not coming home yet. Or something like that. Hard to tell, some guy was pushing me around. By the way, what’s the deal with that Hal guy? Sounded like some long standing feud.”
Joel laughed again, taking the last few steps in silence until you reached the landing. There were only a handful, and when he stopped in front of his door, he let you slide gently off his back.
“Hal’s an old customer, been coming around since my dad used to run the bar,” he said, looking at you with tired, glinting eyes as he fished his keys from his pocket. “He always orders drinks he can’t pay for, and lately he’s been getting pissed whenever Tommy tells him not to come if he’s broke. He’s not a bad guy, just a pain in the ass when he’s drunk. Tonight he got mad and threatened to piss on the bar, so I kicked him out.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Yeah, he’s a real piece of work,” he muttered, frowning as he struggled to fit the key into the lock.
It took him two tries, a quiet “shit” and then... click. Joel pushed the door open and motioned for you to step inside.
When he turned on the lights, your eyes wandered around the place with quiet curiosity.
Because even though Joel carried that kind of mystery you’d expect from someone you’d only met a few hours ago, there were still a lot of things about him you couldn’t quite figure out or wouldn’t have guessed. Like the fact that his place was actually tidy and clean. You didn’t want to sound judgmental, but he gave off more of a laid back vibe.
Still, his living room felt warm; the soft golden glow from a table lamp lit the space gently. There were records stacked neatly on a shelf, a guitar resting by the window, and a small dog bed sitting next to the couch.
“You have a dog?” you asked, smiling as you turned to look at him.
Joel smiled back, but he didn’t need to answer, because before he could say anything, the sound of tiny, excited paws echoed down the hallway.
A moment later, a beagle puppy came running toward you, tail wagging wildly, completely overjoyed. The little dog spun in a few happy circles before Joel crouched down to pick him up, and you just stood there, staring, utterly delighted.
“No way, you have a puppy?” you said, stepping closer to stroke his soft little ears as your heart melted entirely.
“It’s a long story,” Joel said with a small laugh. “But I guess you could say yeah, I have him now.”
“And you leave him alone?” you frowned, pretending to scold him as you took the puppy from his arms. “So this man here leaves you all by yourself at night? Just to go drink at a bar!”
“I don’t leave him alone,” Joel protested beside you, gently petting the puppy’s head.
“Oh no? Let him answer,” you said, grabbing the puppy’s collar to check the tag. “Let’s see what he says... oh, you gotta be kidding me!”
Joel stifled a quiet laugh, and you looked at him with a wide, incredulous smile.
“Snoopy!” you exclaimed, hugging the puppy as he excitedly tried to lick your face, pulling a laugh from you. “I can’t believe you have a puppy named Snoopy!”
“He came with the name,” Joel said, watching the pup. “Wouldn’t dare change it.”
“Oh my God, you’re so perfect, little one, you’re so perfect, the perfect Snoopy.”
Joel chuckled softly and stepped aside. “I’m gonna grab my toolbox, won’t be long.”
“Sure,” you nodded, gently setting Snoopy down on his bed beside the couch.
You gave him a few more pets before curiosity got the better of you. You wandered over to Joel’s record shelf, scanning the titles and artists he had stacked neatly. On top of the shelf sat a framed photo; two boys, who you guessed were Joel and Tommy, and their parents? Maybe.
You lingered there for a few seconds before turning around and slowly taking in the rest of the apartment. The air was completely drowned in his scent, and it clung to every inch of the place. For some reason, the smell stirred something in your stomach, and your hand drifted there without thinking.