The overhead light catches in her dark red hair and turns it nearly to fire, bright and alive against all that shadow. She doesn't look angry. She doesn't look hurt. She doesn't look like anything I can name.
And that's what wrecks me.
Her face is too calm. Too unreadable. It makes my skin prickle, like I've already done something wrong and just haven't figured out what it is yet.
I force my eyes back to the door, to the line of people waiting to get in, to the job I'm supposed to be doing. But it's too late. Her stare lingers. I can feel it on the back of my neck like a hand I don't know how to shake.
The night drags on like that.
People come and go. I check IDs, scan wristbands, send a few too-drunk assholes away with a hard look and a word. The music pounds through the walls, bass vibrating up through my boots, but none of it drowns her out.
Every time the door swings open, I brace myself.
Every time it doesn't, I'm still thinking about her.
Halfway through the shift, the line thins out for a minute, and I catch another glance inside. She's pouring a drink, head bent over the bar, but then she looks up like she knows I'm there. Our eyes lock again, longer this time.
No smile. No wave. Just that same steady look I can't figure out.
My stomach twists.
I look away first.
By the time last call hits, the crowd is thinning, and the air feels heavy with the kind of tension that sticks to your skin. I'm wiping down the doorframe, pretending to be busy, when the front door opens from the inside.
It's her.
Olivia steps out with a glass of water in her hand, her apron untied now, hair a little messy from the night. She stops a few feet away, close enough that I can smell her perfume mixed with the faint tang of spilled liquor.
"Hey," she says.
Her voice is quiet but clear, cutting through the noise from inside like it was made for me.
"Hey."
She takes a sip of water, eyes never leaving mine. "You've been avoiding me."
It's not a question.
I open my mouth to deny it, then close it again. There's no point. She knows.
"Yeah," I say finally. "Maybe."
She nods once, like she expected that answer. "Why?"
The word lands heavier than it should.
I shift my weight, glancing at the door like it might save me. "Been busy."
"Mm." She doesn't buy it. "Busy enough not to text back?"
I swallow.
She waits.
"It's not…" I start, then stop. "It's complicated."
Her expression doesn't change, but something flickers behind her eyes. Hurt, maybe. Or disappointment. I can't tell which is worse.
