The bar lights were low and honey-warm, glassware chiming softly under Allie's hands as she mixed a drink. Her phone buzzed against the rubber mat.
A text from Kit—yes, she'd changed his contact. Not Curtis H. anymore. Just Kit. Safer that way, she told herself. Clear lines.
Kit: Hi!! So what's next?
Allie smiled without meaning to and tucked the phone face-down. She'd answer after her shift.
"Al," Dex called, sliding over, cologne and nerves trailing him. "Any chance you can cover my nights this week? I'm… in a bind."
Allie's stomach sank. She'd planned the week for their lessons. But Dex had covered for her—more than once—when she needed to be with her mom. She couldn't say no.
"Yeah," she said, even before her practical brain could object. "I've got you."
"Legend," Dex breathed, relief loosening his shoulders.
On break, Allie slumped on a milk crate in the back, phone in hand, running through every plan she now had to rearrange. A message popped up—Clarisse.
Clarisse: You alive, gremlin?
Allie: Barely. Schedule exploded. I have to work every night. What do I do with Kit?
Clarisse took three seconds.
Clarisse: Bring him to the bar. Field trip. Nightlife 101. If he's as reserved as you say, this'll be gold.
Allie let out a laugh that felt like oxygen.
Allie: You're a genius. Drinks on me.
Clarisse: Obviously!
After close, back home and bone-tired, Allie typed out a message anyway, knowing he might be asleep. Better to send it before it slipped her mind.
Two evenings later, he was waiting outside Coppa, hands tucked in his pockets, breath ghosting in the cold. He glanced up when he heard her voice.
"Sorry—I had to change."
He turned—and forgot English. The practical ponytail was gone. Her hair fell in loose, dark waves; a ribbed, low-plunge long-sleeve hugged her frame; low-waist flares skimmed her hips. A streetlight snagged on the gloss of her mouth.
He swallowed, hard.
"Hold this?" she asked, passing him her purse so she could pull the tie from her hair. The motion was slow and devastating. For a second the city went quiet.
"Thanks," she said, reclaiming the bag. He handed it back like something precious. He needed air.
"Dinner?" he blurted.
"Better," she grinned. "Street dogs."
They ate on the sidewalk, steam curling from the cart, mustard and laughter and cold fingers. He realized he'd never done this—never let food drip onto a napkin with zero concern for appearances. It felt… good.
"Ready?" she asked. "Let's go to work."The bar breathed differently at night—bass in the floorboards, neon skimming the bottles like liquid candy. Allie tied an apron around her waist and leaned in, conspiratorial. "Do whatever you want. Don't wait on me."
"Can I sit at the bar?" he asked.
"Corner's yours." She flashed a grin.
"Drink?"
"Negroni."
Her brows lifted. She'd expected him to say "water."
Kit settled onto the last stool, the room unfolding around him. He watched Allie move—faster than at the café, but just as graceful—measuring pours by feel, laughing with regulars, reading the room like sheet music.
A broad-shouldered guy stepped up, knuckles drumming the counter. "Allie. That date?"
She smiled, easy and kind. "You already know the answer. But thanks for being a good friend."
Something unclenched in Kit's chest. He didn't examine it.
A couple ordered martinis and kept sneaking glances at the new face. Allie clocked it and gestured toward him with her chin. "This is my friend, Kit," she told them. And then to the next regular. "My friend, Kit." It rang differently each time she said it—simple, claimed, true.
When she glanced back again, a pretty girl had slid onto the stool beside him, ponytail and lip gloss and confidence.
"Hey," the girl said, sweet and close, "are you—"
"Hi," Allie cut in, smile professional, tone not. "Can I help you with a drink?"
The girl blinked, gauging the temperature. "I'm fine."
"Great," Allie said, then added, lighter, "He's with me."
The girl drifted off. Allie winced, leaning toward Kit. "Some people here get… bold. Mindfulness is self-defense."
He nodded, filing it away. And then, slowly, he found his rhythm—talking with a small cluster of strangers about markets, about gaming rigs, about how good music makes a room behave. Words didn't stick in his throat. He didn't map every sentence. He just… talked.
From the service well, Allie watched it happen. Pride rose in her chest like heat.
Look at you, she thought. You're doing it.
After last call, they grabbed an Uber.
The city smeared by in blues and golds.
"This weekend," she said, half-turned toward him, "my friend's gallery is hosting an art show. I'm handling the snacks and drinks. If you're free, you should come. You know, since you're secretly an art person."
"I'll be there," he said, immediate and certain. He didn't even check his calendar.
The car stopped in front of a house. He stepped out first, offered a hand with quiet instinct. She took it.
"I'm not inviting you in it's my best friend's place," she said gently.
"Of course."
"Good night," she said, then laughed at herself. "Good… mornight."
He smiled, something easy settling into his bones. "Mornight."
She slipped inside. The door clicked. Back in the car, he looked at his reflection in the window and almost didn't recognize the man looking back—lighter somehow. He had met new people and hadn't hated it. Maybe he'd even liked it.
He felt closer to his goal—ready to approach Nadine without the old awkwardness. And yet, like a thread he couldn't quite grasp, something in him tugged elsewhere.
The gallery smelled like paint and citrus and cold metal frames. Afternoon light slid across polished concrete floors. Allie arranged her last platter—figs, manchego, paper-thin prosciutto—while Clarisse hovered with a stemless glass of wine and not a single apology.
"Allie," Clarisse said, mouth full of cheese, "one day, I'm investing in your café. Name it, 'Holy Sh*t This Girl Can Cook.'"
"Brandable," Allie deadpanned. "Also: pace yourself."
"If we'd actually moved in together," Clarisse sighed dramatically, "I'd be forty pounds happier by now." She winced—wrong topic—then barreled through.
"So… is Sir Spreadsheet coming?"
"Be nice," Allie warned, double-checking labels. "And it's Kit."
"Kit," Clarisse repeated. "Nickname? Oh no. You're falling."
"I am not," Allie said too fast. "He's my friend. This is… business."
"Mmm." Clarisse sipped. "And your pupils dilate for all your business partners?"
"Go greet guests," Allie ordered, cheeks warm.
The doors opened. He arrived right on time: plaid blazer, black knit under it, cinnamon chinos, a beanie tugged low. The look shouldn't have worked. It did. Allie smoothed her checkered dress, adjusted the layered turtleneck, glanced down at her black Mary Janes—why was she nervous?
He saw her. She lifted a hand. He came over, soft smile in place.
"Hey," she said. "You clean up nice."
"So do you."
She led him through introductions—Clarisse assessed him like TSA—and then gave them space. They drifted past landscapes and abstracts, stopping to puzzle over texture and light. Allie talked with her hands, animated and sharp; Kit listened like each word was a bead he wanted to string in order.
"It's about negative space," she said at one point, stepping closer to a canvas.
"What isn't there makes what is… louder."
He looked at the painting. Then at her.
"I see that," he said.
When she slipped away to refill drinks, he didn't trail after her. He found a small knot of guests and the artist, and fell into conversation—earnest, curious,
confident in a way that didn't feel borrowed. Allie spotted him across the room and felt something in her chest go soft and terrified at once.
He's shining, she thought. He doesn't even need me.
A swallow, a straightening of shoulders. Boundaries mattered. She'd keep them. She had to.
"Your friend," the artist said later, catching Allie near the table, "Kit, right? He knows what he's talking about."
Allie's eyes widened. He introduced himself as Kit. The name sat warm and dangerous in her throat.
Across the room, he caught her looking and lifted a hand in a small wave—hesitant, the way he had been at the very beginning, and yet not the same at all.
She squeezed her fingers around the edge of a tray to keep them steady, a smile finding her anyway.
"My friend Kit," she said softly, to no one and to herself, "is doing just fine."