Chapter 22
Haiyden
This is a shitshow.
We’re at peak, and nothing’s running smoothly. The air is thick with body heat, the scent of spilled liquor and sweat clinging to every surface. Every table, every seat, every corner of the bar is packed. Drinks slosh over rims. Chairs scrape. Voices rise over each other in a discordant drone.
It’s too loud, too crowded, and there’s too much movement.
And then there’s Tanner.
I like the kid—I do. But tonight, he’s fucking killing me.
I watch, for the fourth time in twenty minutes, as he fumbles another drink order—hands jerking, trying to balance two beers and a cocktail on the same tray. His elbow clips a shot glass, and I already know what’s going to happen before it does.
The crack of glass shattering on the floor makes my teeth clench.
I exhale through my nose, fingers digging into the edge of the counter. Spilled drinks. Wrong tables. Glassware piling up.
I’ve been seeing his mistakes before they happen, stepping in to fix them before they drag the whole night down.
I try to cut him some slack. He’s not the only one off his game tonight.
But if this keeps up, we’ll be underwater in another hour.
Normally, I thrive on nights—the rhythm, the mindless repetition, the way I can keep my head down and work.
But tonight, I’m counting the seconds until people start checking their phones for rides, deciding they’ve had enough of this place and moving on.
Somewhere that’s not my fucking problem.
“Taaannnnner!”
The high-pitched call snaps me out of it.
I glance toward the front corner of the bar, near the door. A table of loud, drunk women—mid-forties, maybe older—wave him down like they’re at a damn concert.
They’ve been camped there for hours, knocking back wine like it’s water.
I saw Tanner floating around earlier, soaking up their attention. He got their first few rounds in, flirted shamelessly, then ditched them completely.
I blow out a breath, roll my shoulders back, and walk over, throwing on a charm I don’t feel.
“What can I get you ladies?”
The one who called for Tanner turns toward me, her eyes dragging down my chest, clearly assessing.
That familiar itch creeps up the back of my skull—the instinct to shut this down before it gets worse.
“You’re not Tanner,” she slurs. But her tone shifts instantly, syrupy and flirtatious.
Her smile wobbles as she steadies herself on the table, like even sitting up is a challenge.
Fucking great. Just what I need tonight.
I keep my tone neutral. “I can grab him, or I can save you the wait and get your drinks myself.”
Just order. Get it over with.
She squints, trying to decide if she likes me more than Tanner.
“Drink!” one of them calls.
“Yeah, drink!” another echoes.
Their voices overlap, too high, too loud—grating against nerves that are already shot.
I pull out my notepad, already regretting this interaction, but stop short when I realize how stupidly simple the order is. Five of them. Four drinking the same wine. One drinking something different.
Tanner should’ve had this handled. Hell, he could’ve done it blindfolded—if he’d actually been paying attention.
I head back to the bar, grab fresh wine glasses, and line them up along the back counter.
I’m usually generous with a pour.
Not tonight.
Still, the last thing I need is a table of hammered, horny, middle-aged women shrieking about short pours. So I’m measured. I don’t rush.
Behind me, the kid finally sounds like he’s doing something useful—two cocktail shakers rattling against the counter.
I don’t know what the hell he’s been doing for the past two hours, but it sure as shit hasn’t been bartending .
I grab all five glasses, deciding I’ll make one trip for two reasons:
I don’t want to deal with the shrieking when some of them get their drinks and some don’t.
I plan to stay as far away from them as possible for the rest of the night.
I barely take two steps before Tanner slams into me.
“FUCK, TANNER!”
I slam the wine glasses onto the back bar, harder than I mean to. I’m honestly surprised none of them shatter.
“Watch where you’re going!”
The bar stutters into silence. The shift is immediate—chatter dulls, heads turn. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch every woman at the “girls’ night” table practically clutching their pearls.
Tanner looks like he wants the floor to open up and swallow him. “Sorry, boss,” he mutters, backing up so fast he almost trips.
I grit my teeth, breathing hard, trying to keep my voice level. I can’t deal with him right now—not with sticky espresso and vodka sinking into my fucking skin.
He scrambles for a towel, finally grabs one, and shoves it toward my chest. I snatch it out of his hand, slap it under the soda gun, and storm down the hallway toward the office.
I glance over my shoulder once—just enough to make sure my voice lands.
“And watch your damn tables!”
The second I slam the office door shut, I scrub at my shirt hard enough to tear the fabric. It doesn’t make a difference. The stickiness lingers. The frustration lingers .
Tonight is a fucking train wreck. I’d planned to leave early once the crowd thinned out, but with Tanner screwing up left and right, I don’t trust him. I can’t leave him alone. So I’m staying until close.
I shouldn’t have yelled at him. I know that.
But fuck. I can’t let things fall apart.
Just a few more hours. Then I can go home. Find silence. Lie awake for hours staring at my ceiling. At least then, I won’t have to deal with this shit.
I toss the rag, now soaked through, into the trash. I’m not washing it. I don’t want any reminders of how this night is going.
Shoving the office door open, I stride down the hallway, my pulse hammering with irritation. Sticky jeans. Sticky shirt. Useless bartender. Packed bar.
And then I see her.
Copper waves spill down her back, catching the dim lights. Her hair shifts as she moves, her head tilting toward whoever she’s talking to. I don’t need to see her face.
It’s her.
And then I see who she’s talking to.
Fucking Tanner.
I barely register the way Tanner shifts as I walk up behind the bar. He takes one look at me and immediately steps aside, practically tripping over himself to get out of my path.
Smart.
I make a mental note to apologize later, but any plan to smooth things over disappears the second Calla’s eyes meet mine.
She relaxes just slightly, her features softening like she’s relieved to see me .
And for the first time tonight, the harsh noise of the bar fades into something distant.
“Hi, Haiyden.”
I feel it settle deep—that strange, inevitable pull between us.
A real, unguarded smile tugs at my mouth. It catches me off guard, but I hold onto it.
“How does wine sound?” I ask, skipping the formalities.
“Wine sounds great,” she says, a small, shy smile pulling at her lips.
It’s not much, but it sparks something in me anyway. She looks… lighter tonight. Like some of the weight she’s been carrying has finally eased.
I grab a glass and reach behind the lineup of liquor bottles tucked along the shelf, pulling out the wine I stashed earlier.
The same red she brought on Christmas.
I uncork the bottle and pour slowly, letting it run deep into the glass. And when I recork it, tucking it away, it’s not because I’m ashamed.
It’s because it’s hers.
And I don’t trust Tanner not to pour it for some drunk asshole who won’t appreciate it.
I turn and slide the glass across the bar, my fingers holding the stem for just a moment too long.
She lifts it, her eyes on mine, and tilts the glass in a quiet toast.
“Cheers.”
Her voice is warm. Easy. Like she’s letting herself settle into this moment, too.
I watch as she takes a slow sip, her body visibly relaxing. The tension unwinds from her shoulders, her lashes fluttering as she swallows.
She giggles—a soft sound, sudden and light.
And it fucking wrecks me.
My chest tightens, and I don’t even know why.
“Okay, Haiyden, first of all, that’s a huge pour,” she says, her tone teasing, lips curved into something dangerously close to playful. “And what is this? It’s really good.”
I almost reach for the bottle.
Almost tell her.
But I stop—because suddenly, I feel fucking self-conscious.
I force a casual shrug. “It’s new. We just picked it up here.”
She swirls the glass, watching the liquid catch the light, and I notice how easy she seems now. Comfortable.
The pull to stay right here, like this, is strong.
But out of the corner of my eye, I catch the movement—people crowding the bar.
Tanner’s flustered face comes into view. Of course.
I lean in slightly, my voice low, meant just for her. “I think Tanner’s head might actually explode if I don’t help him out.”
Her lips twitch like she’s holding back a laugh.
I turn toward the chaos, but not before glancing back at her over my shoulder.
“Let me know if you need anything.”
The words come out softer than I mean them to—quieter, but heavier somehow. Like they mean more than I’m willing to admit.
She doesn’t say anything, just watches me with her fingers curled loosely around her glass, her expression unreadable. But as I turn back toward the chaos behind the bar, I feel it.
The anything living between us.