Keaton moved through the motions—changed into jeans that weren’t covered in grime, washed his face, even opened the fridge before remembering he wasn’t actually hungry. His mind kept looping back to dinner with his mom and Paige, to the way his sister had defended Jules with such easy, unflinchingcertainty. To how his mom had tried—even if she’d fumbled through the pronouns like they were a foreign language. Would she be as accepting if this thing they were doing turned into something serious?
He sat on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, thumb hovering over the screen. Jules had said he could come by. That it would be a slow night. That they wouldn’t be alone. But still, he hesitated.
What was he doing? His thumb moved before he could overthink it.
Be there in a few
He hit send before he could lose his nerve, slid the phone into his back pocket, and grabbed his jacket.
Maybe it was reckless. Maybe it was too soon to visit them at work just so he could be close to them.
But tonight, for once, he wasn’t going to let the fear win.
He had someone worth walking toward.
And that was enough to get him out the door.
The glowing sign cast a soft amber hue across the sidewalk, and for a second, he just sat in the truck. Engine off. Windows cracked. Radio low. He could still leave. Head home, soak in a hot shower, pretend like he didn’t miss Jules’s voice, their easy laughter, the way they always leaned in when Keaton talked, like every word might be a secret worth savoring.
But he didn’t leave.
Instead, Keaton slid out of the truck, shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket, and walked through the door.
The place was quiet. A slow Tuesday night crowd—two couples near the back playing cards, a guy nursing a beer at the end of the bar, and a group of college kids hunched around a table covered in laptops. Low music drifted from the speakers overhead, something mellow and acoustic that matched the pace of the night.
And behind the bar was Jules.
They were wiping down a row of pint glasses, sleeves pushed up, a scarlet bandanna tied loosely around their wrist. Their hair was a little messier than usual, and they wore a black T-shirt with the bar’s logo and a pair of faded jeans that had seen better days. Keaton had never seen someone look so effortlessly comfortable in their own skin.
Jules glanced up—and froze.
Their eyes widened for a split second, then softened into something that looked dangerously close to relief. “Hey, stranger,” they said, setting the glass aside and tossing the rag over their shoulder. “I was starting to think you were all talk.”
Keaton cleared his throat and made his way to the bar, choosing a seat two stools down from the beer guy. “I wasn’t sure if I should come.”
Jules leaned both elbows on the counter, their grin crooked. “You’re here. That counts.”
“I didn’t want to interrupt anything.”
“Trust me, you’re not.” They glanced around the room. “This is what we call a ‘glorified library with alcohol’ night. You want something?”
Keaton hesitated. “Whatever’s on tap is fine.”
Jules raised a brow. “That’s not how this works. You’re talking to someone who names their houseplants and judges produce on its emotional journey. You’re gonna have to be more specific.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Surprise me then.”
Jules lit up like they’d just been handed a challenge. “Dangerous words to say to the person behind the bar.”
He loved that the easy banter between them was back. It wasn’t the same as when they were at home, but it was good. Nice.
They moved behind the bar with practiced ease, pulling a pint and sliding it across the counter with a flourish that would’ve looked ridiculous on anyone else. “This one’s a small batch amber ale from that place over in Rock Hill. Malty, smooth, and slightly bitter—just like someone I know.”
Keaton took a sip, and dammit, it was good. “You’re not wrong.”
“About the beer or you being slightly bitter?”
He shot them a look, and Jules just laughed, the sound threading through his chest like static.
