He scoffs. “I still have frosting-related trauma, thanks to you.”
Before I can respond, three or four patrons—clearly regulars—perk up in unison, the kind of synchronized curiosity that only comes from weeks of silent eavesdropping.
The first one, a tall, wiry man in a neon green trucker hat with“Ask Me About My Ex-Wives”written across it,leans forward with a shocked expression. “You’re Sable?TheSable?”
Next to him, a woman in a biker vest covered in glittery patches and exactly three feathers braided into her gray hair squints dramatically. “Hot damn, I thought he made you up. Like that guy from Fight Club but with tits.”
“Girl, we’ve had a pool going on what you looked like. Thought you might have been some AI bullshit.” A third guy, all of five-foot-five with a mustache that deserves its own introduction, elbows the first man. “Told ya she was real.”
“She’s real!” someone in the back yells. “And fine as hell! Pay up, Denny!”
Then ZZ Top Beard himself slaps the bar, proudly sporting a“WWHD—What Would Hex Do?”tee that looks homemade and hasn’t been within spitting distance of a washing machine since 2019. “Queen of Ruin's End right here!”
I nearly double over laughing. It’s too much. Too chaotic. Too perfect. I snort, and everyone hears it, and somehow that only makes the applause grow louder. Demi beams beside me like she orchestrated the chaos herself. But I know the owner of this place curated this crowd into exactly what they’ve become.
With both hands, Demi hurls me into the thickening circle of regulars, who swarm me with praise and hilarious comments.
Then I feel it.
That shift in the air.
Everything hushes inside me, even with the room still buzzing. My body registers him before my eyes do.
I turn… and there he is.
Hector Xavier Alvarez.
Walking toward me. Time bends around him. Every line of his body taut and powerful. A black tee hugs his frame as if it knows it’s wrapped around something sacred.
His eyes are locked on mine. Focused. Unflinching. No hesitation. No noise. Just him.
He stops right in front of me.
Curling one strong arm around my waist, he lifts and settles me gently on the bar’s edge. His hands linger on my thighs, tracing the shape of me with quiet devotion. As if I’m something both fragile and unbreakable.
The room hushes.
The entire bar goes still, a breath caught in every throat at once, including my own.
Then he speaks.
“I’ve had a lot of versions of this place in my mind,” he says, his voice low, gravel-smooth, unshakeable in a way that makes my whole body lean toward him. “And a lot of versions of myself.”
He goes still, eyes distant, as if tracing a thread that runs back through everything he’s ever been. “I used to stand right here and picture what this bar could be. WhatIcould be. Differentsetups, different nights, different faces coming and going. Sometimes I imagined success. Sometimes I imagined walking away from it all. But none of those versions ever felt right.”
He looks up at me again, eyes locked, sure as anything.
“Becauseyouwere in none of them.”
My breath catches.
I can’t blink. Can’t move. Afraid that even the slightest movement will shatter this moment.
“You crashed into my life like a storm—well, that was mostly Demi,” he says with a small, crooked grin that pulls a soft laugh from the crowd and a“You’re fucking right”from Demi, “but you… you made everything make sense.”
He takes a breath, and I feel it echo in my own chest.
“I love you so damn much, it rewired me. You and Bash. You didn’t just give me something to look forward to. Youbecamehome. You’re the peace I never thought I deserved, and the angel that pulled me out of the dark.”
