Chapter 21 The Holy Ordinaries
Chapter twenty-one
The Holy Ordinaries
It’s been two weeks since I kicked Warren Ellison out of my bar with my bare hands, a barstool under my boots, and every ounce of fury I’d been swallowing for years.
It’s been one week since Cain stood beside me—no, behind me, backing me, bracing me—and told my mother to get the fuck off his property.
And it’s been days since the last echo of their voices tried to claw their way into my peace.
They’re gone.
I remind myself of that every time the anxiety tries to curl around my ribs like a familiar friend. Every time my phone buzzes and I hesitate. Every time the door creaks open and my stomach clenches for no reason at all.
They’re gone.
And what’s left behind is… calm.
Not the absence of noise, but the presence of something solid.
I spend my mornings in the hobby room that smells like hot glue, cinnamon wax melts, and a dozen unfinished projects.
I’m currently making garlands out of dried orange slices, twine, and those teeny wooden beads.
Cain walked in yesterday, called it “witch shit,” then asked if I could make one for the front windows.
He says he likes the way I make things feel like home.
And I think I’m starting to believe him.
Hank’s started coming by for dinner more. Sometimes it’s leftovers. Sometimes it’s grilled cheese with tomato soup. Sometimes it’s takeout from the taco truck Cain likes to grumble about but secretly loves.
He brings stories. Newspaper clippings. Once, he brought a pumpkin pie and said, “You two need something sweet that doesn’t require a mop and a closed door.”
Cain turned so red, I nearly died. Hank winked and muttered something about “rabbit season” on his way out.
We don’t talk about the future. Not really. We don’t whisper about weddings or rings or babies or mortgages. We don’t make five-year plans or circle dates on calendars.
We just… are.
Cain kisses me like I’m holy and fucks me like I’m not.
I serve drinks with glitter on my cheekbones and bruises on my thighs.
We laugh until I cry.
We sleep like we’ve never known nightmares.
We wake up and do it all again.
There’s a rhythm now. A beat. A pulse.
Late nights behind the bar. Early mornings in the sheets.
Hot coffee. Hotter mouths.
My glue gun gets more action than most people’s dating apps.
I paint ornaments while Cain sharpens knives. He calls it our version of self-care.
On Sundays, we hit the farmer’s market. I pick out apples and fresh sourdough. He looms behind me like some post-apocalyptic bodyguard who moonlights as my boyfriend.
And I love it. All of it.
It’s getting colder.
The kind of cold that makes you want to stay in bed longer, wrap yourself in oversized hoodies, and press your toes under your lover’s thighs just to hear them whine about it.
Fall’s bleeding into November now. The trees are half-naked, the bar’s got a space heater by the front door, and I’m constantly sipping something warm—tea, cider, Cain’s coffee when he’s not looking.
Halloween came and went, and it was actually kind of perfect.
Cain and I sat out front of the bar with a bowl full of candy and a string of orange lights tangled around the stool legs. I wore a witch’s hat and fishnets. He wore a black hoodie and a resting murder face.
The neighborhood kids LOVED him.
They’d come running up, squeal over the full-size candy bars, then scurry back to their parents like they’d survived a boss battle. Cain just grunted and handed out more.
One little girl dressed as a bat told him he looked like a vampire.
He deadpanned, “I bite.”
She blinked and said, “Cool.” Then asked for a second candy bar.
I laughed so hard I choked on a caramel.
Moments like that—simple and sweet and ridiculously normal—make me feel like I’m living someone else’s life. Or maybe just finally living mine. The kind I used to daydream about when I was stuck under someone else’s thumb.
But now I have Cain's hand on my lower back and, for once, I’m not bracing for something to fall apart.
“We should do something for Thanksgiving.”
Cain’s lounging behind the bar, wiping down pint glasses like he’s been tending this place for a hundred years. I’m halfway through organizing the napkin holders by color, but the idea’s been simmering all day, and I finally say it out loud.
He looks up, one brow cocked. “Something?”
“Dinner. Here. For anyone who needs it. We’ll cook. Serve. Make it real nice.”
His mouth pulls into that rare, melted-honey smile. He sets the glass down and stalks toward me, slow like a predator—but soft, like he’s stalking, his. He crowds me against the edge of the bar, hands braced on either side of my hips.
“You wanna feed the whole goddamn city, little saint?”
I grin up at him, shameless. “Only the hungry parts.”
Cain kisses me like I just gave him religion. Deep, claiming, grateful.
“My little saint,” he murmurs against my lips. “Taking care of everybody.”
Hank walks in right on cue and clears his throat. “Just one day. That’s all I ask. One day of walking in without seeing you two go at it.”
Cain doesn’t move from where he’s got me backed up against the bar, his hands braced on either side of my hips like he owns every inch of me. He leans in and kisses me again, slow and reverent like he’s memorizing the shape of my mouth.
Hank groans. “For real, Cain? What’s it about this time?”
Cain lifts his head, eyes still on mine. “My little saint wants to feed the whole damn city for Thanksgiving.”
I blush, tucking my face into Cain’s chest before turning to Hank. “Not the whole city. Just… anyone who needs it. I don’t want anyone to feel lonely that day. Not when we’ve got food and a warm space and each other.”
Hank looks at me for a long moment, then pulls me in for a one-armed hug and kisses the top of my head.
“You’re a good kid, Rabbit. Damn good. I got some friends,” Hank continues, voice quieter now.
“Other vets. Some don’t got family. Some do, but it ain’t safe to go home.
You open those doors, I’ll bring ‘em. Promise you that.”
“Oh my gosh, bring them,” I say, already mentally reorganizing the bar’s tiny kitchen and all its sad, dusty cabinets. “We’ll need more chairs. And tables. And food. Lots of food.”
I spin toward the napkin holder I was organizing and rip out the list pad stuck under it. Cain just watches, totally unbothered, as I start scribbling like a woman possessed.
“Turkey. Obviously. Probably three or four really. Potatoes. Mashed, not scalloped—too bougie. Gravy. Cranberry sauce. Homemade, not that gelatinous canned stuff. I’m not an animal—”
Cain comes up behind me, arms sliding around my waist. “You sure about that, rabbit?”
I smack his chest with the back of my hand, but I’m grinning. “Stuffing. Mac and cheese. Green bean casserole. Sweet potato casserole. Rolls. Dessert. Like… pies. Plural. Pumpkin, apple, pecan.”
His lips brush the curve of my neck. “You gonna let me help or just micromanage me into an early grave?”
I turn in his arms, flushed and breathless from my food-induced frenzy. “Is it okay? Really? Doing all this?”
Cain cups my face with one of those rough, tattooed hands that make my brain short-circuit. “Anything for you, my little saint. I’d raze the whole damn world if it meant you smiled one second longer.”
I melt. Full puddle. No bones. Just goo.
He kisses me, slow and soft at first, then deeper—until Hank clears his throat again from behind the bar.
“Swear to God,” he mutters. “Y’all need a damn bell I can ring before I enter.”
"Speaking of bells," I say, untangling myself from Cain's arms, "we should get one of those giant dinner bells. You know, the kind people ring on farms to call everyone in from the fields."
Cain snorts, his hand lingering on my lower back. "You planning on herding cattle through here, little rabbit?"
"No, but it would be festive. Very Norman Rockwell meets… whatever we are."
"Sinners with a kitchen?" Hank offers, already settling onto his usual stool.
I laugh, feeling that warm bubble of happiness expand in my chest. It's been happening more and more lately—these moments where I suddenly realize I'm not just surviving anymore. I'm living. Building. Creating something that feels like it might actually last.
Cain pours Hank a whiskey without asking and slides it over the bar. “Let’s see you pull off a Thanksgiving miracle, rabbit. I’ll deep-fry the turkey if you promise not to set anything on fire.”
I gasp, mock-offended. “I will have you know I’ve only ever set one oven mitt on fire. And that was in college. And it was floral.”
“That makes it worse,” Hank deadpans, sipping his drink.
Cain chuckles, eyes soft as they roam my face like he’s memorizing every freckle. “What else is on your master plan, little saint?”
I sigh, dreamy and dramatic. “Decor. Twinkle lights. Paper turkeys. Cute-ass menu signs. I’m gonna make little ‘thankful’ cards for people to write on and hang them behind the bar.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Cain mutters, but it sounds like a love letter.
“And stuffing,” I add, suddenly serious. “So much stuffing. Like… mountains.”
“God help us,” Hank groans, rubbing a hand down his face. “Sinners with a kitchen.”
I laugh until my sides ache, and Cain reaches over the bar to tug me in by the front of my flannel. He kisses me in that way that turns everything to syrup and sparks, like it’s instinct now. Like it’s breathing.
When I finally pull back, dazed and stupid-happy, I lean my forehead against his. “I love you.”
Cain’s fingers tighten around my waist. “I know.”
“And I love this,” I say, turning to glance around the space that used to feel so cold and empty. “This bar. These people. You. Me. All of it.”
He brushes his thumb over my cheek, reverently. “It’s ours now.”
I blink, because I wasn’t expecting that. But it feels right. It is ours. This strange little sanctuary we’ve built out of scars and second chances and burnt toast.
Outside, it starts to rain. Not the stormy kind, just soft and steady against the windows. And for the first time in years, maybe in my entire life, I feel nothing but peace.
Peace, and love, and the warmth of Cain’s hand tangled in mine as we watch Hank start to make a list of pie flavors on a cocktail napkin.
And for once… I don’t need to plan the next escape.
I just want to stay.