Page 174 of Smoke and Glitter

Sam looks through the glass door toward the house behind us. I follow his gaze.

Summer is awake again, tucked into the corner of the armchair while Colt holds Wren against his chest. Marisol is gathering plates nobody asked her to touch. Lucia is leaning over the back of the sofa talking to Jake. Dom is standing in the kitchen eating something directly out of a serving dish because he gave up on plates.

"I want that," Sam says. "I don't know exactly what ours looks like yet, but I want to find out."

My eyes burn.

He turns back to me.

"And when everybody finally goes home, I want you to still be there."

I look at him for a long moment.

Then I lean in and kiss him.

The back door opens before either of us can decide whether we're staying outside forever.

Jake sticks his head through. "Are you two coming back, or did getting engaged make you antisocial?"

"Give us a minute," I tell him.

"You've had several."

Sam reaches behind us and pushes the door toward him.

Jake catches it before it closes. "Rude."

"Go away, Holloway."

He disappears inside laughing.

Sam stands first and holds out his hand.

I take it.

We go back into the house together.

The room absorbs us almost immediately. Someone asks Sam a question from the kitchen. Lucia catches my wrist because she wants another look at the ring. Summer calls me over from the chair, and Colt starts arguing with Jake about something neither of them will remember tomorrow.

Sam's hand leaves mine somewhere in the middle of it. Months ago, I would've tracked the exact second. Tonight, I don't need to. I know where he'll be.

Epilogue

Sam

Autumn is at the far end of Smoke. That's where I find her every time I look up.

Opening night has been full since we unlocked the doors, enough people packed into the bar that the conversations blur beneath the music and I haven't stood still for more than a minute. Autumn has claimed the last stool near the end, exactly where I imagined her when this place was still construction dust and arguments with an architect.

Her laptop is open beside her mezcal, a client crisis plan taking up half the screen. Her firm stays small on purpose: creatives, performers, founders and other public-facing people whose work doesn't fit neatly inside a standard press package.

Anna still calls her directly when one of the agency's accounts catches fire. Marisol has already sent referrals, and one of our performers learned that asking Autumn a quick question can end with a strategy document and a contract.

She looks down the length of the bar and catches me watching.

Her glass lifts slightly. I lift mine back before somebody asks for my attention and pulls me into something else.

When I first got the keys, this room was bad wiring, exposed walls and a floor I wasn't sure we could save. Tonight, people I don't know are sitting beneath the restored tin ceiling drinking at a bar that used to exist only in my head.