“Family,” I say simply. “My dad passed a few years back. Mom moved closer to my sister. I wanted something that was mine.”
She studies me carefully.
“That’s brave.”
I snort. “Owning a bar?”
“No. Choosing your own path.”
Her words settle somewhere steady in my chest.
“My turn,” I say.
“Never have I ever regretted something I thought I wanted.”
Her gaze flickers.
She nods slowly. “I have.”
I don’t press.
Not yet.
We keep going—college mistakes, worst hangovers, embarrassing crushes. Every answer peels back another layer.
She laughs easily. Teases without cruelty. Listens like she means it.
And somewhere between her smile and the way her knee brushes mine under the table, I realize I don’t want this night to end at last call.
I stand. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“Full access.”
She lights up.
I show her the stage wiring. The framed photos behind the bar. The old neon sign from my dad’s first job that hangs near the hallway.
“You kept that,” she says softly.
“Yeah.”
She runs her fingers along the edge carefully.
“You care,” she murmurs.
“About what?”
“About what you build.”
The way she says it makes it feel like she’s talking about more than just wood and beer taps.
The supply room is quiet compared to the front. The door swings shut behind us with a soft click.
She turns in a slow circle.
“So this is where you hide from your employees?”
