24. Alaina
ALAINA
The bar hums with a steady pulse—music too loud, laughter too sharp, glasses clinking like war drums. It’s Friday night, the kind where tips roll in and patience runs thin.
Then I see him.
Not Troka—no. This is Levi Renson, all six-foot-four of cocky charm and honeyed lies. I haven’t seen him since before stretch marks and bottle warmers, back when I thought dancing till dawn was a personality trait.
“Alaina freakin’ Southland,” he crows, arms wide as the moon. “Still breaking hearts behind the bar, or have you finally run off with some galaxy pirate?”
I smirk, throwing a towel over my shoulder. “Only pirates I deal with now steal lollipops and throw tantrums.”
He throws his head back laughing, smooth as synth-silk. “Tell me there’s a story behind that.”
“There’s a toddler behind that,” I shoot back, pouring a drink with practiced flair. “Named him after a dead poet and a stubborn streak.”
He slides onto a stool like he owns it.
“You look good,” he says, eyes raking me in a way that used to make me blush. Now it just prickles.
“Flattery gets you watered-down ale and a lecture on my day job,” I say, pouring him one anyway.
“What if I like lectures?”
“You always liked trouble more.”
“Still do.”
Out the corner of my eye, I see Troka.
Leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. Watching.
His golden gaze slices through the crowd, through me. There’s heat there. Jealousy. But also… hurt. Deep and blistering.
Levi follows my gaze, then whistles. “Well, damn. You always did have a type.”
“Big, broody, and emotionally unavailable?” I mutter.
He grins. “I was gonna say tall.”
Troka doesn’t move.
Not when Levi clinks glasses with me.
Or when Levi leans close to whisper some joke about the bartender uniform being a “tactical distraction.”
Not even when I laugh. A real laugh—sharp and sudden and a little cruel because I know who’s listening.
Later, I’m wiping down the bar when I feel the shift in the air.
Troka’s voice is low but tight. “That's your ex?”
“No,” I say flatly. “Friend.”
“It looked like more than that.”
I meet his eyes, challenge bubbling up. “Why? You keeping tabs now?”
“You were flirting.”
I slam the rag onto the counter. “You don’t get to police my conversations, Troka.”
He leans in, voice rough. “I’m not policing. I’m asking.”
“Then ask better.”
He exhales hard, nostrils flaring. “What are we doing, Alaina?”
“Don’t ask me that.”
“I am asking. Because I’m out here, showing up, being present—”
“Present?” I bark a laugh. “You showed up after. After everything. After the war. After him.”
His mouth twists. “You said he wasn’t mine.”
I bite my lip. Hard. “I said a lot of things.”
“So which part was the lie?”
The bar’s gone quiet. Someone killed the music, or maybe it just died under the weight of our words.
I step around the bar, fists clenched at my sides. “You don’t get to judge me.”
“I’m not,” he says, voice rising. “I’m trying to understand. But you— You keep playing like this is a game.”
“Because if it’s not, then what the hell is it, Troka?”
He steps forward, chest heaving. “It’s everything. That’s what it is.”
I look up at him, heart clawing at my ribs.
And then, because I’m stupid, because I’m hurting, because I need to make him bleed the way I’ve been bleeding.
“You don’t even know what you missed.”
The words are out before I can catch them.
He flinches. Just slightly. But I see it.
A crack in the armor.
I backpedal. “Forget it.”
“No,” he says, voice low. “Say it.”
“I’m done talking,” I snap, grabbing my jacket.
“Alaina—”
“I said I’m done.”
I storm out the back, the night air hitting my lungs like fire. The alley reeks of spilled beer and sour smoke. My hands tremble as I light a cheap stimstick, sucking down the burn.
Footsteps crunch behind me, but I don’t turn.
“Don’t follow me,” I warn.
He stops.
“I wasn’t going to.”
Silence stretches between us, brittle and cruel.
“You have no idea,” I whisper.
“I want to.”
Too late, I think.