Rory.
Standing by the door looking like he’d seen a ghost.
Oh.
Oh no.
I leaned toward Clara. “If this ends in public crying I am not emotionally equipped.”
Freya laughed shakily. “You see him too, right?”
“I see him,” Clara muttered darkly.
I watched Rory watch her.
And it hit me. That look. I’ve seen that look before. Dan used to look at me like that. Like the air had shifted. Like he was physically struggling not to cross a room.
Freya marched toward him.
We all held our breath.
And when they disappeared into the back room, Hannah whispered, “Well. That’s either closure or conception.”
Lou turned to me. “Do you think he loves her?”
“Yes,” I said instantly.
Because men don’t look like that unless they’re already lost.
Abigail studied me carefully.
“And Dan?”
I didn’t even hesitate.
“Yes.”
Her mouth twitched.
“Good,” she said. “Because you look like someone who’s finally being chosen.”
That hit. Harder than tequila. Because that’s what it was. Not sex. Not flirting. Not chore negotiations.
Chosen.
When Freya came back later, hair wild, lips swollen, eyes dazed, Clara screamed.
Hannah demanded details.
Lou nearly knocked over a cocktail.
I just smiled.
Because for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t watching someone else’s love story and wondering if mine was dying.
Mine was messy.
Complicated.
