They drifted down the bar to serve another customer, but not before tapping the top of Keaton’s hand with two fingers. Brief. Barely there. But enough to leave a trail of warmth behind.
Keaton took another sip, trying to shake off the feeling that he’d wandered into unfamiliar territory without a map. This wasn’t the kind of place he usually felt at ease. But tonight, with Julesmoving through the space like they belonged to it—and maybe a little to him too—he didn’t want to be anywhere else.
Ten minutes passed. Maybe more. He watched Jules chat with a pair of regulars, then disappear into the back to restock. When they returned, they slid into the space across from him, elbows on the counter, chin resting in their palm.
“You doing okay?”
Keaton blinked. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Jules shrugged. “You’ve got your ‘I’m fine but actually spiraling’ face on.”
“I don’t have a face.”
“You absolutely do. Like you’re trying to do math in your head, but the numbers keep talking back.”
Keaton exhaled slowly, letting the truth drift up before he had the chance to bury it. “You ever feel like maybe you’ve built your whole life around the wrong things?”
Jules tilted their head. “Depends. Are we talking about your borderline obsessive affection for spreadsheets or something deeper?”
“Maybe both.” He looked down at his glass, tracing the rim with his finger. “There was this kid on site today—one of the new guys—joking around with another employee. Said I probably go home and jerk off to perfectly square corners.”
Jules choked on a laugh. “Okay, rude. Also, weirdly specific.”
“I know it was just a dumb comment. But it stuck.” His jaw flexed. “Because I’ve heard it before. Different versions. That I’mtoo stiff. Too married to the job. That I’m not the kind of guy who?—”
“Who what?”
“Who has someone waiting for him at the end of the day.”
Jules was silent for a beat. Then, quietly, “Do you want to be that guy? The one who has someone waiting for him?”
Keaton didn’t answer right away. The truth felt too big to say aloud. But he nodded.
“Then be him,” Jules said simply.
“It’s not that easy.”
Jules leaned in, voice lower now. “Keaton, I already told you I don’t need you to be someone who texts me twenty times a day or drops everything to be there for me. I don’t need grand gestures. I’m not sure what else I can say to make you believe that.”
“You matter more than you might know,” he said, the words coming out rougher than he intended.
“Then tell me when you’re scared. Tell me when it gets too much. Let me be part of it instead of assuming I’ll be in the way.”
Keaton met their gaze, something raw and unspoken passing between them. “I’m trying.”
They didn’t say anything else. Just smiled, small and quiet, and went back to wiping down glasses.
Keaton sat there long after his glass was empty, watching Jules move through the bar like their feet were always half a second ahead of their thoughts. Light. Unpredictable. Alive.
And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like life was something happening to him. He felt like he might actually have a say in it.
He stood, tucked a tip under the empty glass, and caught Jules’s wrist as they passed.
“Hey,” he said.
They turned, eyes questioning.
“Thanks for not letting me stay stuck in my own head.”
