Because when everything caught fire,
And it would,
She’d finally see:
Only he could match her flame.
Only he would set her free.
CHAPTER 16
In the Quiet Moments
The club thrummed with its usual subdued symphony: low voices, the soft clink of glassware, laughter pressed into polished edges. Every sound was intentional, like a jazz riff played beneath a velvet curtain.
Behind the bar, Arden worked with efficient grace, slicing limes with a rhythmic precision that gave her hands something to do while her mind drifted. Across from her, Marco held court.
“I’m serious,” he said, animated as ever, hands carving dramatic punctuation in the air. “The guy swore up and down he invented the Negroni. Like, sure, buddy. You and some Italian bartender from 1919 are spirit twins.”
Fatima leaned on the counter, her laugh effortless, catching in her throat like sunlight.
“Maybe it’s your hair, Marco. It screams, ‘Tell me your worst ideas.’”
Arden’s smile surfaced before she could stop it. She set the knife down with a sharp tap against the cutting board. “No doubt. Your hair’s a beacon for weird drink orders and unsolicited therapy.”
Marco pressed a hand to his chest in mock betrayal. “Et tu, Arden?
I come to you vulnerable, and you cut me down like a bad vodka tonic.”
“Maybe stop telling people you’re a jazz musician in your spare time,” she said, lifting an eyebrow.
“That’s not a lie,” Marco shot back, indignant. “I played triangle in elementary school band. That’s jazz-adjacent.”
Fatima nearly doubled over, laughter shaking her shoulders. “You’re beyond help.”
Arden shook her head, the grin tugging at her lips impossible to suppress. Itwasn’t just amusement that filled her chest—it was something steadier. Familiar. Safe.
These nights were rare. These people, even rarer. Marco’s ridiculousness. Fatima’s glow. The way they made the bar feel like something more than polished surfaces and curated playlists. A rhythm had formed between them; a fragile kind of comfort, stitched together in jokes and side-eyes.
And then?—
She reached for a coaster.
Fingers paused.
Something was folded beneath it.
A receipt. Edges crisp, name scrawled across the top.
Arden.
The warmth evaporated. She froze.
The letters were rushed. Uneven. As though written in a hurry—but deliberate enough to land right here, under her hand, folded just so.
Her chest clenched. Once.
She slipped the note into her apron pocket with composure that felt paper-thin.
