A glass shatters somewhere behind the bar.
Ever’s head snaps toward the sound. For half a second, something shifts in his eyes—irritation, calculation, an instant inventory of everything that’s breaking down and how fast he can patch it.
He moves—fast—bending to snatch up shards, but another customer pushes in close to the bar, demanding attention, and then another. Shiloh slides into place behind the bar, rolling sleeves up to reveal corded, powerful forearms.
His gaze flicks to me and away. “Sorry, Yank…you’re going to have to bug us some other time.”
This isn’t about me today. Not in the way I wanted it to be. Something in me—something cold, practical, older than pride—clicks into place.
Fine. If I can’t force my way in by being a nuisance…I’ll do it by being useful.
I slide off the stool without asking and step behind the end of the bar like I belong there.
Shiloh’s head jerks up from the beer he’s already busy pouring. “Reva?—”
I don’t look at him. I don’t look at Ever. If I make eye contact, someone will tell me no. And no is a wall. I’m done slamming into walls.
I grab the broom Ever was going for and sweep the broken glass up quickly, then grab a bus tub that’s overflowing with empties and glassware. It’s heavier than it looks, but I haul it without incident toward the sink in the far rear corner of the bar.
I’ll be in the way if I attempt to pour drinks, but I can wash a few dishes.
Turning the water on, I take stock. Sponge…soap…drain rack. There’s a stack of lemons on a nearby cutting board and a knife sitting right there in invitation.
I start washing. One glass, then another. Quick rinse. Soap. Rinse again. Stack. Repeat.
The rhythm steadies my heartbeat. A job is a job. A task is a task. I don’t need permission to be competent.
Ever watches. I can feel his gaze without searching it out. That stare, laser-like as it sweeps across the room and pauses on me, recalculating.
Shiloh sets another bus tub down beside me and collects a stack of clean glasses, muttering under his breath. “This fucking girl.”
I keep washing.
Behind me, the door keeps opening, the little bell over top jingling each time. The room keeps filling. Someone calls for a round. Someone wants limes. Someone’s shouting a name I don’t know and yelling at an absent ref.
It’s the kind of morning that turns into a mess if you don’t get ahead of it. I reach for the lemons and start slicing thin even wedges.
Ever’s voice drops behind me, flat and low. “What do you think you’re doing?”
I don’t turn around. “What’s it look like.”
“I don’t want your help.”
“I know that.”
A beat. The room swells around us.
“Stop being an asshole, Ever.” Shiloh leans a hip against the bar, gaze watchful. “You ever worked a bar?” he asks again, but this time it’s not playful. It’s a test.
“Told you I did, didn’t I? Yes.” My lie comes too fast—automatic.
Ever says, flatly, from somewhere over my shoulder. “Isaid no.”
I set a lemon wedge down and finally turn.
“You know,” I say, wiping my hands on a towel to conceal their tremble, “I’m getting real sick of that word. No. Or maybe it’s the way you say it—all righteous and smug. You don’t strike me as a man who likes to hear it told to him, so maybe you should stop saying it.”
Ever’s eyes hold mine. His chest rises and falls in a deep breath that screams irritation, but he doesn’t respond. He just turns away, giving me his back.
