Part of this is her.
Part of it is the fact that Finn bled out on concrete because we underestimated how far Cole was willing to go.
Ryder notices everything.
He watches me swap out the back lock one afternoon, leans against the bar with that still, assessing look he gets when he’s already three steps ahead.
“You’re tightening the perimeter,” he says.
“Yeah.”
He nods once. That’s it. No questions, no pushback. Just understanding.
Finn takes longer to catch on when I hand him my toolbox so he can assist me.
“Why do I suddenly feel like I’ve been assigned a job?” he mutters one night when I tell him to start walking people out after closing.
“You’ve always had a job,” I reply.
“No, I had a vibe,” he counters. “This feels like responsibility.”
“Same thing.”
“It’s absolutely not the same thing.”
He grumbles about it for a minute, then grabs his jacket and does exactly what I asked anyway.
That’s Finn.
Complains first. Shows up anyway.
Aurora notices pieces of it.
Not the whole structure, just the edges.
She catches me checking the back door twice one night.
“You already locked that,” she says, leaning against the counter with her arms folded.
“Yeah.”
“And now you’re checking it again.”
“Yeah.”
She watches me, a thoughtfulness settling into her expression. Then she nods because it makes sense, it fits into whatever she’s been putting together in her head.
That part stays with me—how quickly she adapts.
On Wednesday, the bar’s quieter. Midweek lull. Fewer people, less noise, easier to track movement without trying too hard.
I run through the usual checks, then head toward the back room.
The light’s on.
Aurora’s at the table, a stack of Founders Day flyers spread out in front of her. She’s folding them one by one, lining up the edges carefully, pressing each crease because it matters.
I stop in the doorway, watching.
