But some don’t. Some just get better at hiding the same rot. They wear your patience like a borrowed coat and call it love. Never again.
“Clearly, I’m seeing someone,” I say.
That gets his attention. He blinks, sharp and quiet, like he wasn’t expecting it.
“Oh.”
“It’s turning into something serious,” I add, because I don’t need to explain what is going on between Hex and me. “He’s good for me.”
Andrew doesn’t speak, but the disapproval rolls off him in waves. His expression manifests into the same look that used to make me shrink, explain myself, try to smooth things over.
Not today.
Hex has a past, but he owns it. He doesn’t hide behind charm or delay responsibility until his woman’s already breaking.
He’s gray in a thousand ways, sure, but he’s green in all the ones that count.
Green in how he shows up.
Green in how he listens.
Green in the way he looks at me, like I may just be enough.
Andrew? Red.
Red in his absence.
Red in his promises.
Red in every emergency he created and left for me to clean up.
And for the first time, I don’t feel the need to explain that to him.
"Please let me know when you file the restraining order."
When the evening rolls in, Ruin's End becomes a blur of bodies, booze, and momentum that doesn't let up.
The bass thumps low from the speakers. The scent of spilled whiskey, lime, and anticipation settles over the bar as usual. The air’s electric, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, and somewhere in the mix, someone’s about to get too drunk, too bold, or too stupid.
Not my problem tonight.
I’m behind the bar with Will, who has his sleeves rolled up and a bottle in each hand. He takes three orders at once without breaking a sweat. He’s wired differently. Got his shit together. Has the kind of hustle that earns you your place. He cleans with conviction, pours with precision.
He slides a vodka soda across the bar, then leans in slightly, keeping his tone casual. “She had a… surprise visitor today?”
My jaw flexes. “One of those rare bats. Real dark, nasty mouth on it. The disruptive type.”
He winces. “Shit. One of those.” He starts wiping down the bar even though it’s already spotless. “I should’ve kept eyes out for an infestation.”
“Not your job, Will,” I mutter, tossing a coaster onto the counter a little too hard. “You work enough as it is.”
“Still,” he says, voice low, “I could’ve kept the roost clear.”
“You don’t owe her that,” I say. “You don’t owe me that.”
From down the bar, Larry, a retired mechanic, rests his beer gut against the bar, anchoring him as he nurses his third Coors. Always smelling faintly of motor oil and menthols, he pipes up from his usual stool. “Did I just hear the word ‘roost’? Don’t tell me Hex is playing house now.”
Next to him, Travis, proudly sporting a pair of mirrored aviators indoors and a mullet that looks hand-sculpted by gardening shears, lets out a sharp whistle. “So, when do we get more posts from you two? Been a while since we saw her on the feed. Maybe she came to her senses?”
