The hum of layered conversation wrapped around us—laughter, clinking glass, a burst of something that might have been a football argument near the hearth.
It was the same.
It was exactly the same.
Artemis stepped inside without hesitation. She turned in a slow circle, taking it in like she was reacquainting herself with an old friend.
“It hasn’t changed,” she said softly.
“No,” I replied. “It has not.”
I had changed.
She slid onto the same bar stool she had chosen months ago. I took the one beside her, mindful of the ceiling beams. Our knees brushed. She smiled at that without looking at me.
Caliban and Eloise settled a short distance behind us at a small table near the fireplace, hands laced together in a manner that suggested Caliban had surrendered to chaos and found it tolerable. They were trying to be discreet and failing miserably.
Eloise gave me a thumb’s up.
I ignored her.
The bartender approached.
The same sharp eyes. The same practiced smile. She paused when she recognized us, gaze flicking from Artemis to me, then widening slightlyin recognition.
“So,” she said. “Tab?”
Artemis choked on nothing.
I inclined my head. “I have since familiarized myself with the concept of a tab.”
The bartender grinned. “Good. Saves us paperwork.”
Artemis leaned toward me, stage whispering, “Please do not propose to her this time.”
“I have no such intention,” I murmured.
The bartender arched a brow. “Want to open one?”
I felt the weight of the memory land squarely between us.
Artemis turned to me slowly, eyes bright with anticipation. “Careful.”
“I’m prepared,” I said.
The bartender waited.
“Yes,” I replied. “A tab would be appropriate.”
The bartender’s smirk sharpened. “Oh, I love a man who learns.”
“I am highly trainable,” I said.
Artemis laughed, delighted. “You’re so proud of yourself.”
“I am,” I said. “I have evolved.”
Artemis pressed her forehead briefly to my shoulder, laughing into my coat. The sensation of it—her warmth, her trust—set my heart at ease.
