28. HOLDEN #2
We love coming here.
Korie practically lights up beside me. “See? This is perfect.”
I glance down at them. “We’ve been here a whole thirty seconds.”
“And it’s already perfect.”
I shake my head, amused.
We spot the others in the middle—two tables pushed together, drinks already out, laughter loud enough to cut through the rest of the room.
“Finally,” Miles calls as we get closer, leaning back in his chair with a grin. “I thought you were gonna bail.”
“On poetry night?” Korie says, sliding into the open seat beside Camila. “I thought you knew me.” They turn to Cole. “This is your first time here, isn’t it?”
Cole is leaning back slightly, gaze moving over the room like he’s cataloging it—doors, exits, people. Old habits, probably. But there’s something else there too. Curiosity, maybe.
“Yeah,” he says. “It’s pretty slick. I can see why you like it.”
Mateo waves the bartender over. A shorter woman with platinum blonde hair strolls over.
“Hey, guys. Good to see you!” Piper side-hugs each of us.
Mateo orders another round of drinks and two nacho platters to share.
Korie shifts closer to me, their thigh pressing against mine under the table, grounding and warm.
I rest my hand lightly on their knee without thinking, thumb brushing once, twice.
They don’t look at me, but I feel the joy radiating off them.
Not only about poetry night, but this. Us. Every touch calms them.
“Okay,” Miles says, clapping his hands once. “Who’s reading tonight?”
All eyes turn to Jordan, the professional writer in the group. When he notices, he sits back, shaking his head. “Oh, no. Nope. My poetry is for private eyes only.”
“Ah, come on, hon,” Miles tries.
“Nope. Sorry, babe. It’s for you and you alone.”
Miles leans in for a kiss. “Fine. But just so everyone knows, Jordan is damn good at poetry.”
“Duh. He’s damn good at just about everything he writes,” Mateo says. “I’m still dying for your next book, bro.”
Jordan blushes.
I glance at Korie. They haven’t told me if they’re performing tonight. “How about you?”
Korie just shrugs, like they haven’t decided.
I squeeze their knee, trying to tell them I’ll support them either way.
The lights dim slightly near the front as someone steps up to the mic, tapping it twice.
“Welcome back, everyone,” Melody says, voice warm and practiced.
“It’s so nice to see so many familiar faces in the crowd.
Mostly because it means I can cut right to it.
” A small chorus of laughter floats around the room.
“You know the deal—keep it respectful, no recordings unless the performer gives you permission, and always tip your bartender.”
A few scattered cheers ripple through the room. “Yeah! Let’s do this.”
Korie leans in closer, shoulder tucked against mine, attention already fixed on the stage. I shift with them, arm across the back of their chair.
The first reader performs something quiet and a little rough, her voice shaking at the edges but pushing through anyway.
Korie instantly smiles. I watch them instead of the stage.
The way their brow softens, the way their mouth presses together on certain lines, like they’re holding onto something, and the way their fingers curl lightly against my jeans during certain lines, like they remind them of me.
They’re no longer drowning in us—they’re breathing in it.
The night drifts, and a few more people perform. Some are good, some are awkward. One of them makes the entire room go quiet in that heavy, collective way that sticks with you.
Finally, Korie glances at me as if deciding something, then pushes their chair back. They squeeze my shoulder before walking to the stage, nodding to the host. When it’s their turn, they settle into the chair and unlock their phone, reading from the screen.
“My Steady Breath
I used to think love
was something that happened to me.
Like a tide pulling at my ribs,
deciding where I ended up,
deciding who I became in the process.
I spent a long time bracing for it.
For the moment it would shift
turn heavy
turn sharp
turn into something I’d have to run from.
So I stayed light.
Kept one foot already halfway out the door.
Laughed at the right times.
Left before anything could ask too much of me.
I even shut it down.
Turned away.
Refused to hear its voice.
I thought that was control.
I thought that was freedom.
Then you took my hand
on a busy sidewalk
like you wanted me to
stay.
You didn’t arrive like an ending.
You arrived like a piece already there.
Walking backwards,
with a smug grin on your annoying face
like you’re just waiting for me.
Not to catch up
but to enjoy the journey.
You arrived like a choice
I kept making
even when I didn’t understand why.
You didn’t take up space in me,
you taught me how to stand inside it.
How to stay,
when staying didn’t feel like surrender.
How to let a future exist
without assuming it would collapse under its own weight.
And I think that’s what I didn’t know before
that love isn’t supposed to carry you.
It’s supposed to meet you
where you are already moving.
Not rescue.
Not anchor.
Just… walk beside you.