He considers this. “Gold. And snacks.”
I bite back a smile.
Having Mason here on Fridays started as a necessity. Childcare is expensive, and my support system is still a work in progress. But it’s become something else entirely. The bar adores him. He knows who will sneak him cherries from the bar and who pretends not to hear him asking questions about tattoos.
He looks up and catches me watching, flashing a grin that’s missing one front tooth. “I made you one.”
“I can’t wait to see it.” My chest feels full in a quiet, steady way. Not fireworks. Not chaos. Just… right. The bar is home to me and to my customers. Exactly what I’ve always wanted.
Roz finally corners me near the register, clipboard tucked under her arm, eyes sharp as she scans the room even while she talks to me. “We need to schedule the annual gas line inspection next month. Routine maintenance. Nothing urgent, but it needs to be on the calendar.”
“Got it,” I say easily. “I’ll make a note and follow up with the city.”
She nods once, satisfied, and moves on without another word. That’s Roz—no drama, no wasted energy.
The bar hums in that perfect way that tells me we’re doing something right. The staff moves with confidence. Drinks are flowing. Laughter rises and falls in waves that feel earned instead of forced. I catch snippets of conversation as I pass—first dates, work gossip, someone celebrating a promotion. Normal life. Real life.
I used to think happiness would feel louder. Instead, it’s this quiet certainty in my chest. Like I finally stopped bracing for the next thing to go wrong.
Part of that is being divorced, I think. Things between us were never what a marriage should be. We were never partners—we were two people living together who had a son. When I told David we both deserve more than that, he agreed. And that was that.
“Mom,” Mason stage-whispers from the booth, like the bar isn’t loud enough that everyone can already hear him. “This dragon has five heads now. Is that too many?”
“Never too many heads,” I call back. “That just means it’s extra powerful.”
He nods seriously and adds another head without hesitation.
I smile to myself and slide a fresh drink across the bar, fingers brushing condensation. This—this is what I wanted. Stability. Ownership. A place where Mason can sit ten feet awayfrom me and feel safe while I work. A life I built instead of fell into.
I don’t miss Phoenix. I don’t miss the house that never felt like mine or the marriage that hollowed me out by inches. I don’t miss pretending I was happy because it was easier than admitting I wasn’t.
Here, I don’t have to pretend.
“Harper!” Jorge calls from the far end, already grinning. “You got time to settle a debate?”
“Depends,” I say, reaching for a clean glass. “Is it about whether tequila is a personality?”
“Yes,” he says proudly.
“Only if you have nothing else going on in your life.”
Laughter ripples down the bar. Someone claps. Someone orders another round. The music shifts, bass thumping just a little deeper as the night settles in.
I glance at Mason again, just to check. He’s still coloring, one leg bouncing now, humming under his breath. Safe. Happy. Exactly where he’s supposed to be. With me.
A piercing alarm blares over the music. For half a second, no one moves, confusion freezing the room in place.
Then someone yells, “Is that smoke?”
My head snaps toward the back hallway, and my stomach drops. Gray smoke curls out from under the storage room door, thick enough to be unmistakable. Sharp enough that I can taste it immediately, acrid and wrong.
Panic hits the room like a physical force. Chairs scrape violently across the floor. A glass shatters somewhere behind the bar. Voices rise, overlapping, urgent and sharp. Bodies surge toward the exits.
Mason.
And I’m already moving.
The alarm doesn’t fade into the background the way loud sounds usually do. It gets sharper. More insistent. Like it’s trying to claw its way inside my skull.
