BUT YOU'RE MY SISTER

The King’s Arms had a heartbeat all its own — a steady rhythm that pulsed from the moment its heavy oak door swung open in the early afternoon until the last pint glass was stacked and the final chair turned upside down on the worn wooden tables. For Alicia Carter, it had been a second home for the past three years, though she’d never asked for it to be. She worked here most evenings after finishing her daytime hours at the town library, partly because her mother needed the help and partly because the pub paid just enough to keep them from slipping into real trouble. Tonight, like most nights, the place was alive with the familiar orchestra of small-town life — the clink of glasses, the low hum of overlapping conversations, the occasional bark of laughter from the back corner where three old men argued over a card game they’d been playing since the early ’80s. The smell was a cocktail of beer foam, fried onions, grilled meat, and the faint chemical bite of lemon cleaner. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was safe. And Alicia liked safe. She stood behind the bar now, a striped dish towel slung over her shoulder as she polished pint glasses with mechanical precision. She wasn’t in a rush. The trick was to keep your hands moving so you looked busy, even when your mind was elsewhere. Her mother was working the floor, weaving between tables with the grace of someone who’d been doing this far too long. Shelly Carter had once been the sort of woman who turned heads without meaning to — soft features, warm hazel eyes, a smile that could thaw winter frost. Years of financial strain had left their mark — faint lines at the corners of her eyes, a slight stoop in her posture at the end of long shifts — but there was still a spark in her that no amount of hardship had managed to snuff out. “Ali, love, can you grab another tray of glasses from the back? We’re running low again,” Shelly called over the noise, balancing three plates at once as she ducked around a man in a leather jacket. “On it,” Alicia replied, setting the glass she’d been drying onto the shelf. She slipped into the small storeroom, its shelves stacked with cases of beer and dusty bottles of spirits that hadn’t been touched in years. The overhead bulb buzzed faintly as she picked up a tray of clean glasses. When she returned, she noticed it — a shift in the air. The door had just opened, letting in a burst of cold March wind that made the regulars turn briefly before going back to their drinks. And there, framed by the doorway, was someone new. A man. Not a local. That much was obvious before he’d even stepped inside. He was tall — over six feet, she guessed — with broad shoulders under a charcoal coat that probably cost more than her entire wardrobe. His hair was dark, perfectly cut, and his jaw was clean-shaven in a way that said he had someone to shave it for him if he wanted. Even his shoes — black leather, gleaming — looked like they’d never met a muddy puddle. He moved with a quiet confidence, the kind that wasn’t loud or showy but still managed to demand space. There was no hesitation as he took off his gloves, tucking them neatly into his coat pocket before stepping fully into the room. Alicia’s brow furrowed. Tourists stumbled in here sometimes, expecting quaint countryside charm, but this man wasn’t a tourist. He didn’t have the lost, slightly embarrassed look of someone who’d just wandered off the main road. He looked… intentional. Like he knew exactly where he was and why. She busied herself stacking glasses on the shelf, keeping her head down even as her curiosity prickled. Her mother, however, had already noticed him. Alicia could tell because Shelly’s posture changed — her smile softened, her voice lifted as she approached the bar. “Evening,” Shelly greeted warmly. “First time in here?” The man stepped closer. His voice, when he spoke, was deep and smooth, carrying the easy rhythm of someone used to being listened to. “First time in this part of town,” he said, his eyes scanning the space as though taking stock of it. “Well, welcome to The King’s Arms,” Shelly said, leaning slightly on the bar. “What can I get you?” He glanced up at the chalkboard menu — not long enough to really read it — before answering, “Scotch. Neat.” Shelly poured the drink, sliding the glass across the counter. “Passing through, or are you staying awhile?” “Looking for someone, actually,” he replied, taking a measured sip. His gaze didn’t wander aimlessly; it was controlled, deliberate. “A friend told me this was the place to come if you wanted real conversation.” Shelly chuckled. “Depends who you talk to.” From her position down the bar, Alicia kept drying glasses but tuned in. There was something about his tone — not flirtatious exactly, but… interested. “Name’s Dylan,” he said finally, resting one hand casually on the bar. “Dylan Grant.” Shelly offered her hand, and he shook it. “Shelly Carter.” He repeated her name like he was trying it out, tasting it. “Shelly. That’s a beautiful name.” Alicia nearly rolled her eyes. She’d heard enough smooth talk in her life to know the pattern — compliment, smile, eye contact just a fraction too long. Still, she noticed something about his expression. His smile didn’t seem like the thin, insincere kind she’d seen plastered on too many faces over the years. It was warm. Confident. And that made it worse. The pub moved around them as the night went on — orders being called out, the card players swearing under their breath, the jukebox coughing up a half-hearted country ballad — but Dylan stayed. One drink turned into two. Two turned into an easy back-and-forth with Shelly between serving customers. He asked about the town, about the history of the pub, about her work. He listened in a way that made people feel like they were the only person in the room. And Shelly — tired, overworked Shelly — lit up under his attention. She laughed more in that hour than Alicia had heard in weeks. By the time Dylan finally stood to leave, the place was beginning to thin out. He reached into his wallet, placing a crisp note on the bar — far more than the cost of his drinks. “Keep the change,” he said, his eyes on Shelly. “I’ll be back.” When the door shut behind him, the pub seemed just a little quieter. “You don’t even know him,” Alicia said later, once the chairs were stacked and they were wiping down tables. Shelly glanced at her, still smiling faintly. “He’s harmless.” “You don’t know that,” Alicia pressed, tossing her cloth into the bucket. Her mother sighed. “Ali, sometimes people are just… nice.” Alicia wanted to believe that. She really did. But as she turned out the last light, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Dylan Grant wasn’t just passing through. And that whatever he wanted, it would change everything.