Three days

Chapter 6 -ALEX

The bar was almost empty by the time the last regulars drifted out.

Tuesday nights were always like that — slow enough that the hours stretched, loud enough that the silence between songs felt heavier than it should. I wiped the same stretch of counter twice, more out of habit than necessity, and tried not to check the time again. Closing was still forty minutes away. Forty minutes of pretending the bass from the speakers was enough to drown out the rest of it.

It wasn’t.

Every time the door opened I felt that stupid, traitorous kick in my chest. Every time it wasn’t her, I told myself I was relieved. I was getting better at the lie.

The concert kept replaying in my mind, whether I wanted it to or not. The way she’d leaned back against me during the slow song felt like it was the most natural thing in the world. The way her laugh had cut through the noise. The cigarette I’d taken from her fingers and the look she’d given me when I told her to quit — half challenge, half something softer. And then that almost-kiss on the corner. Barely there. Still enough that I’d felt it for the rest of the walk home.

I shouldn’t have done any of it.

I kept telling myself the same thing I’d been repeating since the party: three weeks. Three weeks was nothing. The wreckage of the last relationship was still sitting in my chest like broken glass. I had no business reaching for anyone, least of all a girl who looked at me like she already knew the shape of the hollow places inside me and didn’t mind them. That kind of looking was dangerous. It made you want to hand over the pieces and hope she didn’t cut herself on them.

The door opened again.

I didn’t look up right away. Habit. Self-preservation if you will. Then I heard the soft scrape of a stool and the quiet sound of a bag being set down, and something in me already knew.

Kate sat two seats down from the end of the bar, canvas bag over one shoulder, hair a little messy like she’d been running her hands through it. She was wearing the same white T-shirt from the afternoon on the wall, or one close enough that it made my stomach tighten. When her eyes found mine, the corner of her mouth lifted in that quiet, almost shy way that still felt like a direct hit.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey.”

I set the cloth down and walked over, trying to keep my face neutral. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. I was studying nearby and … I don’t know. I just wanted to see you.” She glanced around the nearly empty room, then back at me. “Is that alright?”

It wasn’t alright. It was the furthest thing from alright. Her sitting here, alone, under the low lights, with no buffer and no loud group noise to hide behind, felt like standing on the edge of something I already knew I was going to fall into.

“It’s fine,” I lied, the same way I had on the wall.

I poured her a water she hadn’t asked for and set it in front of her. She wrapped both hands around the glass and watched the condensation run down the side. The playlist had moved on to something older and heavier, the kind of song that made the empty tables feel intentional instead of lonely.

For a while, neither of us spoke. I restocked the garnishes I didn’t need to restock. She watched me do it. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable exactly — just charged, like the air before a storm that hadn’t decided whether to break.

Eventually she said, “I keep thinking about the concert.”

My hands stilled on the cutting board. “Yeah?”

“You looked … lighter. For a while. Like you forgot you were supposed to be careful.”

The observation landed too accurately. I set the knife down and leaned my forearms on the bar, closer than I meant to. “That’s the problem.”

“Is it?”

I met her eyes. The same wide, curious ones from the bedroom at the party. No fear. Just that quiet boldness that kept undoing me.

“I don’t do this,” I said, my voice lower than the music. “I don’t let people get close when I’m still … like this. Empty in places I don’t know how to fill. Raw. You said that night you weren’t asking for everything. But every time I look at you, I feel like I’m already giving more than I can afford.”

Kate’s fingers tightened around the glass. She didn’t look away. “I’m not trying to take anything you don’t want to give.”

“I know.” I dragged a hand through my hair, frustrated with myself more than her. “That’s what makes it worse. You’re not pushing. You’re just … there. And I keep finding reasons to let you stay.”

The confession sat between us, heavier than I’d intended. Part of me wanted to take it back. The larger, dumber part of me was already leaning closer.

She reached across the bar, slow enough that I could have pulled away. Her fingers brushed the back of my hand, light, questioning. When I didn’t move, she turned her palm up and waited. I laced my fingers through hers the same way I had on the wall. The contact still sent that same current straight up my arm.

“You’re allowed to be empty for a while,” she said softly. “You don’t have to have it all figured out before you’re allowed to sit with someone.”

I stared at our joined hands. Her skin was warm. Soft. Too easy to hold onto.

“The last time I sat with someone like this, it ended with me standing in my bedroom wondering how much of myself I’d handed over without noticing.” The words came out rougher than I wanted. “I don’t know how to do it differently. I only know how to shut it down before it gets that far.”

“Is that what you want to do now?”

I looked at her. Really looked. The soft curve of her mouth. The way the low bar lights caught the warm tone of her skin. The quiet patience in her expression that somehow felt more dangerous than any demand.

“No,” I admitted. “And that’s the part that scares the s**t out of me.”

Her thumb brushed across my knuckles once, gently. I let out a short, almost self-mocking breath.

“You know I’ve never had a girlfriend visit me at work before?” The words came out quieter than I expected. “Not once. Not even in the long one. She never came by. Even though I asked her to,” I glanced down at our hands, then back up. “I don’t know what it means that you’re here. Or that I didn’t tell you to leave.”

Kate’s expression softened. She didn’t make a joke of it. Didn’t fill the silence with anything easy. She just held my gaze and squeezed my fingers once.

“Then don’t shut it down tonight,” she said. “Just … stay here. With me. Until you close. That’s all.”

It should have been easy to say no. To finish the shift, walk her out, go home and rebuild the walls the way I’d planned. Instead, I nodded, once, and didn’t let go of her hand.

We stayed like that while the last song played out and the lights came up. I locked the front door, counted the till with one hand still loosely linked with hers across the bar, and pretended the simple contact wasn’t rewriting every rule I’d set for myself three weeks ago. When everything was done, I walked her the few blocks toward her place under a sky that felt too clear for the mess in my head.

At the corner where we’d stood after the concert, she stopped. I could see the faint outline of the cigarette pack in her jacket pocket. She didn’t reach for it.

“Still a bad idea?” she asked, echoing the question from the other night.

I stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the warmth of her, close enough that the old fear whispered its usual warning. You’re going to get hurt again. You’re going to let her in and she’s going to leave.

I ignored it. My hand came up to the side of her neck, thumb brushing lightly along her jaw, and I kissed her. Soft. Slow. Nothing like the rushed heat of the party or the careful press of lips on the wall. Just a quiet, deliberate kiss that said more than I was ready to admit out loud. Her fingers curled into the front of my jacket for a second before she kissed me back the same way — gentle, unhurried, like she understood exactly how much it cost me.

When we finally pulled apart, I rested my forehead against hers for a moment, breathing her in.

“Still a bad idea,” I murmured. “I’m just getting worse at caring.”

She smiled, small and a little sad and entirely too understanding. “I’ll take it.”

Then she hesitated, fingers still lightly hooked in my jacket.

“What time are you working tomorrow?”

The question was simple. The implication wasn’t.

I swallowed. “Late shift. Four until close.”

She nodded, then looked up at me properly. “Can I come over to your place? Before you go in. Just for a bit.”

My chest tightened. Letting her into the bar was one thing. Letting her into my actual space — the bedroom I’d just admitted still felt empty, the place where the last relationship had left its marks — was something else entirely. Every instinct I had screamed to say no. To keep at least one boundary intact.

I opened my mouth. Closed it again. The silence stretched long enough that I saw a flicker of uncertainty cross her face.

“Yeah,” I heard myself say, voice rough. “You can come over.”

The words felt heavier than they should have. Like I’d just handed her another piece of myself, I wasn’t sure I could afford to lose.

She smiled again, softer this time. “Okay. Text me the address?”

I nodded, already knowing I would, already knowing I was going to spend the rest of the night second-guessing it.

I watched her walk the rest of the way to her door. I knew her father was strict — she’d mentioned it once in passing, the kind of detail that stuck — so I stayed in the deeper shadow of the trees across the street, far enough that the porch light wouldn’t catch me. I waited until the light came on in her bedroom. Only then did I let myself turn away, hoping he hadn’t glanced out the window and seen the guy standing there like an i***t, watching for proof she’d made it inside safely.

Three weeks.

I was already in deeper than three weeks had any right to allow.

And the worst part — the part I couldn’t stop turning over the entire walk home — was that, for the first time since everything fell apart, the idea of climbing back out felt lonelier than the risk of staying.