Lizzy pov
The bar feels different now, though I can't quite explain why.
It isn't quieter, if anything, the music has grown louder, heavier, the bass pressing into the floor and up through my body until it feels like it's settled somewhere beneath my skin. People move around us in constant motion, voices overlapping, laughter rising and falling in waves that should feel overwhelming.
But they don't.
Because somehow, all of it feels… distant.
Muted.
Like there's something solid standing between me and everything else.
Him.
His arm stays steady beneath my hand as he guides me through the crowd, not pulling, not forcing, just there, firm, certain, like I don't have to think about where I'm going because he already knows. There's an ease to it that I don't question, even though I probably should, and I find myself letting him lead without hesitation, my fingers resting lightly against his arm as though they belong there.
Someone stumbles too close, and before I can even react, his hand is at my waist, turning me slightly, angling my body so the man brushes past him instead, redirected with quiet precision.
"Watch it," he mutters, low and controlled.
The man barely reacts before disappearing back into the crowd, but I feel the moment linger longer than it should, his hand still resting against my waist for just a fraction of a second before it slips away.
And suddenly, I am very aware of him.
Of the space he creates around me.
Of the way I don't feel exposed in the middle of all this chaos anymore.
We reach the bar, and he shifts again, stepping in closer behind me.
Not touching.
But close enough that I can feel him.
Close enough that no one can slip between us.
Close enough that I don't get pushed, or jostled, or brushed aside like I had been before.
"What are you drinking?" he asks, his voice cutting through the noise without effort, low enough that it feels like it's meant just for me.
I glance back at him, a little too quickly, my thoughts slower than they should be.
"Uh-whatever you're having," I say, hearing the slight looseness in my own voice.
He studies me for a moment, like he's deciding something, then nods and turns to the bar.
I watch him while he orders.
There's something different about him now, something that wasn't there before. The uncertainty I caught glimpses of earlier has settled into something quieter, more grounded, like he's found his place in this moment and decided he isn't giving it up.
When he turns back, he hands me the drink, his fingers brushing mine.
"Careful, granny," he murmurs, the corner of his mouth lifting.
I laugh immediately, the sound slipping out easier than it should.
"If you call me that again, I'm leaving you here," I say, though there's no real weight behind it.
I take a sip—
And immediately cough.
"Oh my God—what is that?"
He laughs, properly this time, leaning in slightly. "I think it's mostly vodka."
"Mostly?" I press my hand to my chest, still coughing lightly. "Are you trying to knock me out early?"
"Still deciding," he says, watching me in a way that makes my stomach flip. "You look like you can handle it."
"I absolutely cannot," I reply, taking another sip anyway, which only makes him laugh again.
A man slides in too close on my other side, his presence sudden and unwelcome.
"Hey, hot stu—"
He doesn't get to finish that sentence.
Wade's hand comes up so fast, gripping the back of the man's shirt near the collar, fingers tightening in the fabric as he pulls him back just enough to break the contact.
It isn't dramatic. He's not trying to make a scene. But there's no mistaking it either.
"She's with me."
The words are low, steady, completely certain.
Not a question.
Not something said for show.
A statement.
Final.
The man hesitates, clearly caught off guard, glancing between us like he's deciding whether this is worth pushing. Wade lets go like it meant nothing.
Like it took no effort.
Like he'd do it again without thinking.
The guy mutters something under his breath and disappears back into the crowd.
Wade looks back at me completely calm.
My breath catches, as something warm and uneasy settles low in my stomach, making me shift slightly where I stand.
She's with me.
The words echo louder in my head than the music. And I should correct him.
I should say something, laugh it off, tell him I'm married, that he doesn't get to just claim me like that.
But instead, I find myself watching him, my lips parting slightly as a quiet breath leaves me.
I have read far too many books. Because the way that made me feel, should not be as attractive as it is.
"That doesn't usually happen," I say after a moment, my voice softer now.
"What doesn't?"
"That." I gesture vaguely. "Men just… approaching like that."
"Good," he says.
I blink. "Good?"
"I don't like it."
There's something in his tone that settles deep into my bones. A sharp certainty and for some reason, that certainty doesn't make me pull away.
It makes me want to stay.
Conversation slips into place after that, easy in a way that feels familiar.
I talk more than I mean to.
About the shop.
About the quiet mornings, when everything slows down and the world feels manageable for just a little while.
He listens.
Really listens.
Not interrupting me, or adding in pieces from him own life.
He's watching me like every word matters.
"You really love it," he says quietly.
"I do," I admit.
"I can tell."
There's something about the way he says it that makes my chest tighten slightly, like he's seeing something I don't show very often.
At some point, I step closer again.
I don't remember deciding to.
It just happens, my shoulder brushing his arm, my body angling toward his without thought.
I should probably move.
I don't.
And he doesn't either.
He shifts slightly, just enough that I'm tucked closer to him, shielded from the constant movement around us.
When someone bumps into me harder than before, his hand comes back to my waist instantly, steadying me, holding me there.
And this time, he doesn't move it away right away.
My breath catches again, softer now, my body reacting before my mind can catch up.
I can feel the warmth of him, the solid line of his body pressed close to mine, the way he doesn't hesitate, doesn't question being this close.
I should step back, create space, remember who I am outside of this moment.
But I my brain has decided the mixture of alcohol and this man's intoxicating scent is enough to override all logical thinking.
Because nothing about this feels wrong.
It feels easy.
Like slipping into something that was already waiting for me.
And when I look at him I don't see something bad or harmful.
I see something exciting, enticing and I'm on the edge, ready to jump.