When the song ends, the response is overwhelming. She smiles, takes it in, and shifts into the next one without breaking the flow. I stay where I am. Jamie nudges me once, mutters something about me being whipped
I ignore him.
Tonight, I don’t have the bandwidth to split my attention between my friend and girlfriend.
When Hope’s set ends, the energy in the room shifts and redirects while the next act sets up. I don’t wait in the crowd when she steps offstage. I make my move as soon as she disappears behind the curtain, slipping past the edge of the room while the audience breaks into conversation.
The hallway behind the stage leads me to her. I knock once and push her dressing room door open.
Hope stands at the mirror with her guitar still strapped on, fingers moving through a progression I haven’t heard before. It sounds deliberate, each note placed and left alone long enough to breathe. She catches my reflection and turns, the change in her face warming me every time.
“Hey,” she beams.
“Hey.” I close the door and step toward her. “Your set—” I stop, because anything I say will shrink it. “I don’t have a good word.”
She smiles, easy. “You don’t need one.”
I rest my hands at her waist and she leans into me without thinking, grounded, steady. I nod toward the guitar. “Another new song?”
“Still working on it.”
“It never sounds like work.” I kiss her temple. “More like magic.”
“Smooth talker.” She slips the strap off and sets the guitar on its stand, fingers grazing the worn edge for a beat before she turns back. “We need to go. Fiona’s holding the last seating.”
“My birthday dinner is so fancy,” I tease.
“People wait months for a reservation.” She grabs her jacket. “Don’t argue with her. Try everything.”
“I wouldn’t dare do otherwise.”
We step out through the side door and the cool, quieter air is a drastic departure from the club dropping away behind us. Gus sits just a shared wall over, amber light spilling onto the pavement. A different world waiting on the other side.
Inside, everything runs on control. Contained voices. Precise movement. Organized chaos.
Fiona, who always sports bright-magenta hair, spots us and waves us over. “Right on time. Sit. Relax. Happy Birthday, Alek.”
Hope slides into the plush chair at the counter, already relaxed here in a way I recognize more and more. I take the seat beside her. No menus appear. A small plate is placed between us.
“Blood orange, Calabrian chili, fennel.” Fiona dips her head between us as she moves past.
Hope goes first. She pauses mid-bite, eyes narrowing slightly.
“Okay,” she says under her breath. “This is divine.”
I follow. Bright citrus explodes on my tongue. Heat builds slow under it. The fennel cuts through everything, cooling it down before it gets out of hand.
“We’re in trouble,” I say.
“You had doubts?” She giggles.
“I didn’t know what to expect.”
“Which is the point.”
The next plate replaces the first before I finish it. Caviar over something warm and soft, the salt sharper, the texture smoother than anything I would have picked on my own. Hope leans slightly toward me as she eats, shoulder brushing mine intentionally.
“You’re quiet.” She chews thoughtfully.
