Chapter 5
ETHAN
Friday night I went back alone.
Same bar.
Same time.
Same stupid hope.
The band was loud, covering early-2000s alt rock — guitars fuzzy, drums too hard for the tiny room — and for half a second I swore they were about to play Lit again, the same kind of song we’d danced to the first night.
The kind of song that made strangers reckless.
But she wasn’t there.
I scanned the floor twice. Patio once. Bathroom hallway like an idiot.
Nothing.
Just sweat and noise and bodies that weren’t hers.
Disappointment hit harder than it should’ve.
Mike slid me a beer.
“You look like a man who got stood up,” he said.
“Something like that,” I muttered.
That’s when I asked about gigs.
He laughed at first.
“You? Corporate Ken over here plays?”
“I’m good,” I said. “Promise.”
He squinted at me. “Tomorrow. Come early. Play me something. Don’t suck.”
“I won’t.”
Still—
walking back to my car alone?
Didn’t feel like a win. Because I still didn’t find her. But I knew I would-soon.
The bar looks different in daylight.
No bass thumping through the floor. No bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder. Just chairs stacked upside down, sunlight slanting through dusty front windows, the low hum of a refrigerator working overtime. Someone’s in the back arguing about specials. Garlic and bleach in the air at the same time.
Mike’s behind the bar in a T-shirt that says STAFF on the back, sleeves rolled, clipboard in hand. The owner—Frank, I learned—stands near the register, counting bills, chain wallet clinking every time he moves.
They both look up when I walk in.
“You’re early,” Mike says.
“I don’t like wasting people’s time.”
Frank nods once. “That’s already a point in your favor.”
I set my case down near the small stage area—really just a raised corner by the windows. I open it carefully.
The guitar inside is the one my mom bought me.
Used. Scratched. Warm wood.
The kind that’s been played enough to remember hands.
I sling it over my shoulder, check the tuning by ear. No rush. No nerves.
This isn’t a performance.
This is just me.
Mike leans his elbows on the bar. “Whenever you’re ready.”
I start with Dave Matthews—something rhythmic, easy to sit into. The kind of song that fills a room without demanding it. My fingers find the strings like they’ve been waiting all week.
The sound blooms soft and full.
I sing low, not trying to impress. Just letting the notes sit where they want.
Frank stops counting.
I roll straight into Barenaked Ladies, a song everyone knows even if they swear they don’t. A little smile creeps into my voice without me meaning it to. Muscle memory. Comfort.
Someone in the kitchen pokes their head out.
“Is that live?” a voice asks.
Mike doesn’t answer. He’s watching me now.
I play a third—something lighter, almost playful. The kind of thing people hum along to without realizing they’re doing it.
When I finish, I let the last chord fade on its own.
No rush.
Silence hangs for a second.
Then Frank exhales. “Yeah. That’ll do it.”
Mike grins. “Told you.”
Frank steps closer. “You free for Happy Hours during the week? Maybe a few Sunday nights?”
“Sure. I work until five though during the week.”
He nodded, “I’ll be in touch. We’ve got dinner covered later. You’ll warm the place up. Keep people drinking.”
“Cash?” I ask.
“Forty an hour,” he says. “Tips are yours. If it’s good—” he shrugs “—we talk again.”
I nod. “Fair.”
He sticks out his hand.
I shake it.
It’s simple. Solid. Done.
As I pack the guitar back into its case, Mike tilts his head. “You play like someone who used to do this a lot.”
“Yeah,” I say. “A lifetime ago.”
“Well,” he says, “welcome back.”
Outside, the sun’s higher now. The street louder. Life moving.
I sit in my car for a second before starting it.
Forty bucks an hour. Cash.
Late Sunday afternoons. Random Happy Hours.
Not quitting my job.
Not changing my life.
Just… adding something back in.
I think about my mom. The house. The bills.
I think about Sage—her laugh, the way she looks at me like she’s daring me to keep up.
I don’t tell anyone.
Not yet.
Some things feel better when they’re earned quietly.
Saturday night we hit a different place.
Bigger. Darker. More dance floor than bar.
Tony picked it. Said the DJ owed him a favor.
Beth showed up in a sundress, phone already in her hand.
Sean texted twice before we even ordered drinks.
“Still at work,” she said, trying to sound casual.
Mark winced. Chris gave me that look.
We all felt bad for her. Loyal to a guy who never showed up.
Which is exactly why she always had a seat with us.
Family.
Always.
I grabbed a whiskey and leaned back against the bar, half listening to Tony talk about some real estate deal, half just soaking in the night.
Then—
that feeling.
Back of my neck.
Like static.
Like someone watching.
I turned.
And there she was.
Sage.
Across the room.
Golden hair loose. Black dress. Bare shoulders catching the light.
She didn’t look surprised to see me.
Didn’t smile.
Just watched me.
Slow.
Intent.
My mouth curved without permission.
There you are.
I started toward her—
Then she moved first.
Some guy stepped into her space. Tall. Loud. Confident in that drunk way.
She let him.
Let him slide a hand around her waist.
Let him lean down close to her ear.
But—
Her eyes never left mine.
Not once.
He whispered something.
She laughed.
Soft.
Slow.
And wrapped her arms around his neck.
Still looking at me.
Challenge written all over her face.
What are you gonna do?
My grip tightened around my glass so hard my knuckles went white.
So that’s the game.
“Yo,” Mark said beside me, following my line of sight. “Is that Sage?”
“Yeah.”
“You gonna go over there?”
“No.”
“You should probably tell her you disappeared for a family emergency and not because you’re a serial killer.”
I snorted.
“We never exchanged numbers,” I said. “She vanished first.”
Mark watched her a second longer.
“…Be careful with that one,” he said quietly. “She looks like she knows every rule before you even sit down to play.”
Yeah.
I could see that.
Across the floor, Sage slid her hands down the guy’s chest.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Eyes still locked on mine.
Heat shot straight through me.
Fine.
Game on.
I set my drink down and leaned back like I had all the time in the world.
Let my arms drape across the bar.
Relaxed.
Easy.
Fine.
Game on.
I set my drink down and leaned back like I had all the time in the world.
Arms loose across the bar. Posture easy. Lazy confidence.
Like none of it mattered.
Like she didn’t already have me by the throat.
Women noticed.
They always did.
Especially tonight.
Dark jeans. Fitted white tee. Tan still holding from the week outside. Shoulders broader from real work instead of gym mirrors. Watch catching the lights every time I moved.
One girl leaned into my side to talk.
Another laughed too hard at something I barely said and let her fingers drag down my arm.
Someone else touched my chest like we’d known each other for years.
Bees to honey.
I smiled. Flirted. Let them.
Didn’t chase.
Didn’t try.
Just existed.
Across the floor—
Sage stilled.
Her eyes locked on me.
And something changed.
That playful, teasing look?
Gone.
Replaced with something brighter.
Hotter.
Jealous.
Possessive.
Something sharp I couldn’t name.
My mouth curved.
Slow.
I lifted my glass toward her.
A silent toast.
You can play this game, baby.
Her jaw tightened.
And then—
She escalated.
Hands sliding up the guy’s chest.
Grinding closer.
Letting him whisper in her ear.
Letting him touch more than before.
Daring me.
Testing how far she could push.
Mark leaned in beside me.
“Jesus,” he muttered. “You two are gonna burn the place down.”
Probably.
Ten more seconds.
That’s all I lasted.
The guy cupped her face.
Started leaning in—
Glass hit the bar.
Hard.
I didn’t rush.
Didn’t shove.
Didn’t posture.
I just walked.
Slow.
Certain.
Like the outcome had already been decided.
He noticed me at the last second and tightened his grip on her waist.
Like he thought he had a claim.
Cute.
I stopped right in front of them.
Met his eyes.
Calm.
“Appreciate you keeping her company,” I said evenly. “I’ll take it from here.”
He smirked. “Yeah? She doesn’t look like she’s yours.”
Sage’s breath hitched.
I didn’t break eye contact.
“Try me,” I said quietly.
Not loud.
Didn’t need to be.
Something in my voice must’ve landed, because his smirk faded fast.
He stepped back.
Hands up.
“Relax, man. She’s all yours.”
Damn right.
I took her hand.
Firm.
Certain.
Not asking.
She followed like she’d been waiting for me to.
Out the back door.
Into the warm night.
Cedar shingles cool at her back.
My body crowding hers.
City noise fading into nothing.
Just us.
Her breath.
Mine.
My hand slid up, thumb brushing her cheek.
Slow.
“You done?” I murmured.
Her lips parted.
Eyes dark.
“Maybe,” she whispered.
That tiny word wrecked me.
So I kissed her.
And it wasn’t gentle.
Wasn’t cautious.
It was collision.
Her mouth crashed into mine like she’d been starving.
Like we both had.
Stoli Raz on her tongue. Strawberry gloss. Sweet and sharp and dizzying.
My hands found her waist and she felt impossibly soft—silk skin, coconut heat, summer bottled under my palms.
She fisted my shirt like I might disappear.
Like someone might steal me back.
The kiss went deeper fast.
Messy.
Breathless.
Teeth grazing. Lips chasing. No rhythm except want.
Not just attraction.
Not just lust.
Something heavier.
Like winning something you didn’t even know you were fighting for.
Like grabbing hold of fate before it slipped through your fingers.
My pulse hammered so hard I could hear it in my ears.
Adrenaline. Relief. Possession. Fire.
She wasn’t some random girl at a bar.
She was the moment.
And I knew, with terrifying certainty—
If I let go right now?
I’d regret it for the rest of my life.
So I didn’t.