Chapter 10
chapter ten
Christine and Spencer stepped inside, the cool night air still clinging to their jackets. The sharp scent of hops and freshly poured beer hit first, followed by the faint ozone tang of the air filters humming overhead. Christine took a slow breath, letting it settle before glancing around.
Birkenbrew was alive. The hum of conversation, the clatter of pint glasses, the occasional burst of laughter: it all wove into a familiar rhythm, the kind that made it easy to stay, to drink, to belong.
The brewery was always packed on launch nights, but tonight was something else.
Long, communal tables stretched across the floor, occupied by clusters of people deeply entrenched in their board games.
Illuminated dice flickered in and out of visibility as they rolled, and tiny number projections blinked midair before vanishing.
Cards slapped against tabletops as drinks sloshed dangerously close to the edges.
The bar was a riot of color, lined with tap handles sleekly engraved with Birkenbrew’s latest offerings.
Tiny digital readouts embedded in each one displayed ABV and tasting notes.
The mirrored shelves reflected the glow of programmable neon signs cycling between messages like: “Queer Beer Saves Lives” and “Drink Up, Fuck the System.”
Spencer whistled. “Damn. We are living the dream, sis.”
Christine snorted, scanning the room for Silver. “That remains to be seen.”
As if on cue, a crash echoed from the far side of the room. A small group of onlookers broke into applause as Silver, somehow already on her bullshit, dramatically curtsied before downing a shot someone handed her.
Spencer squinted. “Is she doing shots? We don’t even sell liquor.”
They weaved their way behind the bar, dodging Dax as he speed-poured a line of beers for an impatient-looking table. The contactless payment scanner at the register chirped as credits were exchanged, customers tapping their wrist implants or phones without breaking conversation.
“Oh, finally,” Dax huffed, barely looking up. “Welcome to your own establishment. Must be nice.”
Christine rolled up her sleeves. “Sorry. Long story.”
She hopped behind the bar, immediately finding her rhythm. Drink orders were processed automatically on the heads-up display embedded in the bar top, with customer names and preloaded preferences flashing across the surface.
The walls were adorned with art from local queer creators, all available for purchase.
A handwritten sign next to the bar read, Support gay artists or die trying.
Christine glanced at the latest additions: bold paintings, delicate sketches, and abstract sculptures.
One framed embroidery piece read Sapphics Against Fascism in flowery cursive.
Iconic.
The TV screens were divided: one was playing an intense Minnesota Wild hockey game.
A group of women in jerseys were practically glued to it.
Another played throwback music videos, vintage in the way only early 1990s media could be: grainy, nostalgic, utterly free of the state-sanctioned “morality” filters that now scrubbed newer broadcasts clean of anything “controversial.”
Christine took it all in, reveling in the energy of the space.
This wasn’t just a bar. It was a sanctuary.
It was the kind of place where someone could walk in alone and leave with three new friends. Where someone who had just come out could find an entire community waiting with open arms. Where no one had to lower their voice or watch their back.
A place that shouldn’t have to be rare.
Christine was mid-pour when the TV over the bar caught her eye. Typically, it was tuned to something harmless: sports, music, anything that wouldn’t spike her blood pressure.
Tonight, she wasn’t that lucky.
“Governor Tate announced today-”
Christine’s grip on the tap tightened.
“…that his administration will begin defunding ‘non-essential community programs,’ including several youth outreach and mental health initiatives. According to his office, taxpayer credits should not ‘promote harmful lifestyles to impressionable children.’”
Dax let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “Ah yes, because nothing screams ‘protecting kids’ like making sure they have fewer places to go when their families kick them out.”
Christine slammed the tap handle harder than necessary. “He always makes it sound like queers are some government conspiracy. Like we’re manufactured in a lab and not just…born?”
Dax nodded solemnly. “Yeah, the Gay Agenda R she never did. But there was something different about this moment. She took a slow step forward, watching the way the woman held her breath, the way her lips parted just slightly, the way her weight shifted toward Silver like a subconscious tell.
Silver tilted her head, letting her voice drop just enough to be felt. “You know,” she mused, “I don’t usually let gorgeous strangers linger in the doorway looking lost. It’s bad for business.”
The woman’s lips curled at the edges, subtle but there. “That so?”
Silver let the silence stretch, knowing exactly how to let tension do the work for her. She could feel the heat between them, the anticipation, the unspoken what now?
And she knew the answer.
Silver closed the last few inches between them. She tilted her head, watching the woman’s breath catch, feeling the shift in the air between them. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t bold. It was a choice.
And when she kissed her, it wasn’t just a kiss. It was a question. A suggestion.
For a second, the woman didn’t move. Didn’t pull away.
Then, just as Silver felt her starting to lean in, just as she was about to slide a hand into all that thick, bronzed hair?—
She pulled back.
“Shit,” the woman whispered, blinking like she just woke up. Then, her expression changed from dazed to panicked in record time.
Silver barely had time to react before the woman took a step back. Then another. “I, I have to go.”
Silver frowned. “Wait, hold up!”
But she was already slipping away, disappearing into the crowd, gone before Silver could even get a name.
She exhaled sharply, still feeling the phantom press of soft lips and the charged air between them.
Damn. So close.
?