Chapter Seventeen
Rheda
The bar is louder than I remember these places being.
It’s too much.
The lights sit wrong against my eyes, sharper than they should be. The noise doesn’t separate into voices—it presses in, thick and overlapping, like it’s trying to get under my skin instead of around me.
I pause just past the doorway. Only for a second.
My fingers tighten around the strap of my bag. My chest lifts, but the breath doesn’t land properly, catching halfway like something in me is still tuned to a different room. A quieter one. A heavier one.
For a moment, it feels like I’ve brought it with me.
The hum. The stillness.
Him.
I blink hard.
The music surges again, louder this time, laughter cutting across it, bright and careless, and the contrast hits like a jolt.
I force a breath in deeper and move further into the room.
Olivia spots me. Her tight black curls bounce when she leaps to her feet, the black sparkles of dress catching under the overhead light.
“There she is,” she squeals. “You made it!”
“Of course I did.” I smile. It feels like the right expression.
I reach into my back pocket and pull out a little box. “Happy birthday, Liv.”
She takes it quickly. Within seconds, she strips it bare, revealing a purple, velvet case.
“Oh my God. Did you get me a box? I’ve always wanted one of these.” She teases.
I roll my eyes, biting back a grin. “Open it.”
She does.
There’s a pause before she inhales sharply.
“Rheda!” She exclaims. The noise cuts through the bar, sharp and pitched until we earn a few strange looks. I brace myself for impact. And then—her arms snap around me.
“Oh my God!” She squeals. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”
She jumps against me until I’m forced to jolt too. Her lips meet my cheek just as fast, smearing red lipstick across my cheek.
“You’re the best!”
“What is it?” Someone calls from the table.
“My initials,” she says, breathless. “I’ve always wanted this.”
A laugh comes from the table. “Why didn’t you just buy one yourself?”
“You can’t buy yourself initials,” she shoots back, scowling. “That’s tragic. I’ve been hinting for Dylan to get me one for years.”
She looks at me again, softer now. “How did you know?”
“I listen,” I say, a small tilt of a smile. “Unlike your boyfriend.”
That does it. Her eyes glass instantly, bottom lip trembling in that way I’ve seen a hundred times before.
“Don’t you dare cry,” I warn, already reaching for the clasp. “Or I’m taking it back.”
She laughs and lifts her hair without being asked.
I step closer. The chain is cold between my fingers as I bring it around her neck. For a second—just a second, it feels... off. Like the metal between my fingers shudders. I push it down as quickly as the thought forms. I fasten the clip.
“There,” I say, smoothing the chain flat against her skin.
She turns back to the table, grinning now. “Thank you so much, Rheda. I’m never taking it off.”
I let out something that passes for a laugh and let her guide me toward the table. There are people I don’t recognise already sitting there, drinks in hand, mid-conversation.
It’s easy to fall into it.
Conversation moves quickly enough that I don’t have to think too hard about what I’m saying. Names blur. Stories overlap.
My eyes move. Habit, more than choice.
I track the exits first. There are two: one behind the bar, one half-hidden past the bathrooms. Three staff behind the counter, one runner weaving through tables.
A couple arguing quietly near the door. A man on his phone who hasn’t looked up once.
The group to my left, loud but harmless.
The woman in the corner who’s watching everyone without joining in.
My eyes move without permission—exits, faces, movement—until I force myself to stop. My body doesn’t settle the way it should. There’s still something lingering under my skin.
Olivia nudges me after a while.
“So,” she says, leaning in slightly, “how’s the new job? When I got your text, I screamed. I’m so excited for you to get away from those assholes.”
“Good,” I smile. “Busy.”
Her face drops.
“That’s it?” she presses. “You disappear for a whole week and all I get is ‘busy’?”
I shake my head, a faint smile pulling at my mouth. “I can’t really say anything.”
Her eyebrows lift. “That serious?”
“Something like that.”
She watches me for a second longer than she needs to, like she’s deciding whether to push further, then lets it go with a small shrug. “Fine. Be mysterious. It suits you.”
She gives me a quick wink, then her expression shifts, just slightly.
“You do look a bit worn out though,” she adds, gentler now, studying my face. “When was the last time you actually relaxed?”
“I am relaxed.”
She snorts. “You’re really not. You’ve got that Rheda look on, like you’re analysing the room.”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” she says, smiling. “And it’s weird. Stop it.”
I look down at my glass.
She leans closer, voice lowering. “Just for tonight, you don’t have to be ‘on’.”
She slides a drink closer.
I push it back just as fast. “I’ve got work in the morning.”
“So do I,” she laughs. “But life can’t just be that.”
She softens her voice. “Talk to someone. Flirt. Have fun. You deserve a night off, Rheda.”
For a second, I actually consider it. The idea of letting something go. Of not watching every movement in the room, not tracking every tone shift, not holding myself quite so tightly together...it feels unfamiliar. Dangerous, in a quiet, unnameable way.
I don’t realise I’ve gone still until Olivia’s attention shifts.
“Him,” she says suddenly, low and certain.
I follow her gaze.
There’s a guy at the bar looking over. He’s half-turned toward us, elbow resting on the counter, a drink loose in his hand.
Nothing remarkable about him—just neat enough.
Plain dark T-shirt, jeans, hair that looks like he’s run a hand through it once and left it there.
Handsome, sure. But the kind of face you’d forget five minutes after looking away.
He meets my eyes for a second, then smiles—quick, almost apologetic—and looks down at his drink like he’s been caught doing something mildly embarrassing.
Olivia nudges my shoulder. “See? Easy.”
I exhale slowly. “I don’t think—”
“I do,” she cuts in. “Just talk to him. You never know.”
I hesitate before picking up the drink. The glass is colder than I expect. Damp against my fingers. I pause, just for a second, then take a sip. It burns. I feel it move down, spreading, settling low in my chest like something loosening its grip.
“I’m calling him over,” she says. I don’t have time to argue before she lifts her hand and crooks her finger in a small, confident beckon across the room.
When he realises she’s looking at him, there’s a flicker of confusion first. Then something softer. He points at himself, just to check.
Olivia nods once. “Yeah, you.”
He hesitates before making his way over. There’s a flush already creeping up his neck by the time he reaches us.
Olivia doesn’t give him a chance to hover.
“Come sit,” she says, already shifting. She nudges one of the guys at the end of the table with her knee. “Move up, you’re taking up half the bench.”
There’s a bit of groaning, a shuffle of bodies and glasses being lifted out of the way, but it happens quickly enough.
He slides in.
“I’m Joe,” he says, turning slightly towards me as he settles. His gaze finds mine immediately.
“Rheda.”
He repeats it once, softer. He nods towards my glass.
“What are you drinking?”
“Vodka cranberry.”
“Gosh,” he says, smiling properly now. It settles into him more naturally this time. “I made the mistake of starting on those once. Thought I’d powered through it until I stood up and immediately regretted every decision I’d ever made.”
“That’s exactly how it goes,” I laugh.
His shoulders loosen as he leans back slightly, one arm resting along the back of the bench but not encroaching.
“So, what do you do, Rheda?”
“I’m a criminal doctor.”
His eyes widen.
“That’s actually... really impressive,” he says. “I work in mental health support. Nothing like that level, but—” He shrugs, a little self-conscious. “I guess I get a tiny glimpse of it.”
That catches my attention more fully. “What, like community work?”
“Yeah. Mostly with younger clients.” He glances down at his hands for a second, then back up. “It’s not glamorous or anything, but... it matters. On a good day, at least.”
“It does,” I smile. “More than people give it credit for.”
He lets out a small breath at that, like he didn’t realise he was waiting to hear it.
“Sometimes, though, it just feels like you’re... circling the same things with them,” he admits. “Trying to get them to trust you and most of the time they just shut down anyway.”
I nod before I can stop myself. “Yeah. Or they say exactly what they think you want to hear and nothing real ever actually comes out of it.”
His eyebrows lift slightly. “Exactly. And you can feel it, can’t you? When it’s not real. I don’t know why they do that. We’re just trying to help. There’s no use in lying!”
“Always,” I say. “It’s in the pauses more than the words.”
He studies me for a second, something like recognition settling in. “That’s—yeah. That’s exactly it.”
There’s a small shift in him then, less guarded. He smiles again, softer this time.
“I guess it’s the same thing, just... different settings,” he says. “It’s nice to meet someone else in the sector.”
“Yeah,” I say. “It is.”
He leans closer, and at this distance, I note that he’s handsome. Warm eyes. Slightly uneven smile. There’s still a trace of that earlier nervousness in him, but it sits alongside an easy kindness.
And I’m not working for this.
That’s what stands out.
I’m not choosing every word. I’m not tracking every reaction. I’m just... here, in it, letting it move without trying to control it.
Joe says something else—half a joke, half a story—and I catch myself smiling properly this time, not the polite version I usually default to.
Somewhere between that and the next drink, things start to blur at the edges.
The noise of the bar settles into something steady, voices folding into each other, music low enough that it doesn’t demand anything from me.
I don’t keep track of how much I’ve had.
I just know my glass keeps emptying and filling, and each time it goes down a little easier.
I notice his arm before I register when it got there. It’s light, resting along the back of the bench, close enough that it brushes my shoulder when he shifts. Not heavy, not presumptuous. Just... there and I don’t move away from it.
Olivia leans in again, her breath warm against my ear.
“Kiss him,” she whispers, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, nudging me with her elbow.
I let out a quiet huff, shaking my head slightly.
“No,” I murmur, though there’s no real force behind it.
“Why not?” she presses.
Because I don’t do this. Because I don’t let things be this easy.
I don’t say any of that.
Joe glances at me, catching the tail end of it, his smile turning a little more uncertain. There’s something tentative in the way he looks at me now, like he’s waiting to see which way this goes.
It would be harmless.
That’s the thought that lands, simple and clean. Just a kiss. Just something small, something normal. Something that doesn’t carry weight or consequence or meaning beyond what it is.
Olivia doesn’t give it time to sit.
“Oh my god, just kiss her,” she calls across me, loud enough that a couple of people nearby turn to look.
Joe’s face flushes immediately, the colour rising fast across his cheeks.
“I—” he laughs under his breath, glancing at me again, searching for permission.
I hesitate. It’s only a second, maybe less, but it stretches just enough for me to feel it.
Oh, what the hell.
I give a small nod. He leans in carefully. Our lips meet lightly. The kiss is soft, warm. Brief. There’s nothing sharp in it, nothing that pulls or demands. It’s easy in the same way the conversation has been, in the same way the whole night has been. I feel it, I respond to it, I let it happen.
And for a second, I think I might actually enjoy it.
Then—something cuts through.
A memory.
No, that’s not right.
It feels immediate. Present. Too close.
Deogal.
The image of him lands without warning, sharp enough that it doesn’t belong to the blur of alcohol. His black eyes, fixed, the way they hold without shifting. It flashes through me so quickly it almost feels like it’s come from somewhere outside of my own head.
Stop.
It comes from something deeper than sound, torn from a raspy throat.
I pull back too fast.
Joe jolts slightly with it, his hand dropping from where it had just started to settle more firmly against my arm.
“Sorry,” he says immediately, misreading it, his voice quick and apologetic.
“No—no, it’s not—” I shake my head, forcing a small laugh that feels thinner than it should. “I just—too much to drink.”
He relaxes a fraction at that, though the uncertainty doesn’t fully leave his expression.
“It’s okay,” he says, softer now.
I nod, like that settles it, like that’s all it is.
But over his shoulder, something shifts. A flicker near the edge of the room where the light doesn’t quite reach properly.
My stomach drops before I can stop it.
I blink, trying to focus on it, but it’s gone before I can make much sense of it.
Just people. Just the bar. Just noise and light and bodies moving the way they should.
Still, the cold feeling stays low in my chest.
Olivia’s hand cracks against my back before I can sink too far into it.
“Yes!” she shouts, already pulling me towards her, her laughter loud and bright against my ear. She wraps her arms around me, squeezing tight.
“That’s my girl!” She hollers.
It takes a moment for my heart to stop slamming against my chest. I laugh, because that’s what’s expected.
Because it’s easier than explaining the way my chest still feels tight, the way my eyes keep wanting to drift back to that same dark corner.
And easier than me analysing why I thought of my fucking patient.