Instead, he stepped closer, enough that I could smell cedar and clean laundry and the faint trace of smoke that always clung to him, and said, simply, “Then you won’t be.” His voice was low, deep, and soft, comforting in a way that made my stomach settle and my shoulders sag in relief. “Holloway’s?” he asked. Owned by his aunt and cousins, Holloway’s was a Sweetbriar favorite.
I nodded, already moving toward the door with him and feeling better with each step that I took. “As long as your family promises not to interrogate me.”
He laughed, the sound vibrating through the small space between us. “You know my family. There is no way I can promise you that.”
“Levi,” I said, pointing at him, “your aunt once asked me if I was ‘eating enough’ while handing me a roll and staring directly into my soul.”
His grin widened, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Yeah, that checks out.”
“And your cousins still think they can read people by whether they order fries or tots with their burgers.”
“In their defense, they’re usually right,” he said, unapologetic.
I sighed. “Okay. But if someone asks what I’m doing with my life, I’m loudly changing the subject.”
He snorted. “I’ll spill something. On purpose. I’m good for a distraction, I promise.”
The pub was only a few blocks away, tucked into one of the oldest brick buildings on Main. Holloway’s glowed warm against the gray afternoon, windows fogged, the neon beer signs burning softly against the glass. I slowed almost imperceptibly as we approached, and I felt rather than saw Levi do the same beside me—just half a step, just a fraction, both of us arriving at the door with the memory of the last time we’d left through it settled somewhere neither of us was acknowledging. But we didn’t mention it. We were very good at that.
Levi held the door open for me, and I ducked under his arm and stepped inside without meeting his eyes, which was its own kind of acknowledgment. The smell hit first—malt and fried food and something savory and warm—and then the noise, low conversation, clinking glasses, a burst of laughter from the bar. The dark wood and black-and-white tile, the brass fixtures, the bar worn smooth by decades of elbows and easy evenings. The kind of place that was supposed to make you feel safe.
It did, mostly. It also made me think about a parking lot at midnight and a man on one knee and the heartbreakingly beautiful expression on his face that I’d been trying very hard not to think about ever since.
I looked at the bar instead.
This was a terrible idea. A spectacularly bad plan.
Levi settled in beside me like he belonged there, which was the other problem, because he always had.
I had no one to blame but myself. No one had dragged me anywhere. I’d said yes. On purpose. And now I was walking into Holloway’s with Levi Barrett like my brain hadn’t spent years carefully avoiding this exact scenario.
Levi was the kind of man people instinctively made space for without realizing why. The kind of man who seemed to noticeeverything. And I mean, the man had noticedeverythingas we made our way here. The crack in the sidewalk I would’ve tripped on if he hadn’t reached out to hold my elbow and keep me steady. The car that rolled a little too fast through the intersection, earning a subtle shift of his body closer to mine. The way his hand came to the small of my back as we reached the door, guiding me inside with quiet, unconscious care, like it was simply normal.
My pulse was now completely off the rails. He was gentle. Thoughtful. Like he’d been tracking my comfort level the whole time without me ever asking him to.
And the worst part? I liked it.
I scowled at absolutely nothing, annoyed at myself, at him, at the entire town of Sweetbriar for apparently conspiring against my emotional stability.
And yet my body had already filed its own opinion. I felt safe. I felt cared for. I almost felt like I had my best friend back.
Levi paused just inside the door, eyes sweeping the room. He nodded once, apparently satisfied, then steered us toward a corner booth tucked against the wall. Our booth. The one we had always sat in when we were young.
“This okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, sliding in. “Perfect.”
He took the seat across from me, close enough that my knee brushed his when he leaned forward. My breath caught for half a second, then eased. I told my lungs to calm down. They did not listen.
The space between us felt warm, quiet, full of things neither of us was saying yet. Every time I shifted, my leg grazed his again, and neither of us moved away.
“Look at this,” a voice cheerfully drawled. “If it isn’t my favorite cousin.”
Savannah appeared at our table with a tray tucked under her arm, dark hair pulled back, eyes already bright with interest. Her gaze flicked from Levi to me and back again. Her smile warmed when she looked at me. We’d all gone to school together. This wasn’t just Levi’s cousin serving our table. She was my friend, too.
“Hey, Sav,” Levi said. “Go ahead, I can see you trying to work it out.”
Savannah smiled sweetly, pen poised. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” she said. “I’m just here to take your order. Hi, Becca, and to be completely clear, whateverthisis, I am fully supportive of it. The two of you together? This booth? Feels like old times. All that’s missing is Harper and Jude.”
