I remember the way he used to smile at me—like I was the only thing that mattered in the stadium lights. And then, a few months ago, after everything fell apart, seeing him smiling that same way at someone else. Not the polite grin for cameras or teammates—the real one, soft and unguarded, the one I'd thought was mine alone. Even if it was just a spark of something new beginning for him, it still gutted me.
He deserves someone who can give him everything. All the time. Not someone who has to rebuild from the ruins of their own wreckage.
I set the phone face down on the counter.
The silence wraps around me again, but it doesn’t feel quite so suffocating.
Because I don’t feel unlovable anymore.
Just unsure if I’m allowed to want something like that again.
Someone like him.
But maybe, one day, I’ll find out. The certification in my inbox is proof: ruins can be rebuilt. And hearts? They might just heal enough to try to love again.
The shift is halfover when I finally start to feel human again.
I’ve been on autopilot since the certificationemail landed in my inbox. I told no one. Didn’t even mention it to my manager when I clocked in. I just grabbed my barback apron, tied it tight around my waist, and got to work pouring drinks for people who’ll forget everything I serve them by morning.
Some milestones are like that—loud in your chest but silent to the world.
It’s Friday, so the crowd is thick. Laughter and low bass compete for dominance. I’ve got two vodka sodas up, a mojito muddling, and a group of guys on the left end of the bar ordering whiskey like they’re gearing up to fight God.
And then I hear it.
“Hey, can we grab another round down here?”
It’s not the voice that gets my attention—it’s the way the crowd shifts, the way the air seems to crackle in a way I’ve learned not to ignore. Instinct, maybe. Or hope. I glance up out of habit more than anything.
And that’s when I see him.
Not the guy who called out.The one next to him.Leaning against the bar, one elbow braced casually, a crooked smile on his face as he listens to his friend talk. The overhead light catches in his hair, casting shadows over cheekbones.
Luke.
Time doesn’t stop, but it slows. My breath hitches mid-pour. The ice bucket in my hand feels like it weighs a hundred pounds. I stare because I can’tnotstare.
He hasn’t seen me yet.
He’s laughing at something the guy beside him said—Colton the QB from his team. Luke’s hair is a little longer than it was, curling slightly at the ends. He’s got on a faded tee that clings to his arms in ways that should be illegal, and asilver ring flashes on one of his fingers when he pushes it through his hair.
And then he turns.
He sees me.
We both freeze.
God, he’s beautiful. Andreal. Not a photo, not a memory, not a ghost. Just… Luke. Standing ten feet away from me in the bar where I come to disappear.
I brace for him to look away. To retreat. To pretend I don’t exist the same way he did a few months ago. But he doesn’t.
He holds my gaze. And then—then—he smiles. Not the full-dimples, flirty troublemaker grin. Just a small one. It lands like a punch to the ribs.
I open my mouth. I don’t even know what I was going to say. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.
But Luke moves first. He leans slightly forward and rests his forearms on the bar. “Tequila sunrise,” he says, then adds with a smirk, “Extra sunrise. And he wants a Pina colada.”
His voice is light.Warm.There’s no edge to it. I nod, hands steadying instinctively. I reach for the bottle and the shaker, heart pounding as though I’ve just run drills in the rain.
