Page 128 of What We Become

“She’s also married to the woman who runs a pottery studio in the warehouse next door. Very talented. Very intimidating.”

Sage relaxes against me, barely, just enough that I know I’ve given her the right information at the right time. She’s still scanning the room—I can feel her attention moving across faces, exits, shadows—but she’s letting herself be here with me too.

Val sets two drinks in front of us. One is amber and smoked, garnished with what looks like a dehydrated orange wheel and a sprig of rosemary that’s definitely trying too hard. The other is pale and fizzy with cucumber and mint.

“This one,” Val says, tapping the smoked one, “is for Micah, because he likes to act delicate and then order something that tastes like a campfire punched a tree. And this one’s for Sage because she gives the vibe of a woman who wants to be told it’s light and refreshing while secretly hoping it could strip paint.”

Sage picks up the glass. Sniffs it. “I feel alarmingly seen.”

“I worked service for ten years,” Val says. “I can read a woman’s damage profile in under thirty seconds.”

“That is either a superpower or a cry for help.”

“Both,” Val says brightly.

Sage takes a sip. Her brows lift a fraction. “Okay. Annoying. This is really good.”

Val beams like she personally invented alcohol. “I’ll bring you fries if you promise not to leave before the second round.”

“Bribery through potatoes,” I say. “Still the strongest economy.”

“You know me.”

Val winks at us, snags a ticket from the rail, and disappears down the bar in a blur of braid and black ink and practiced charm.

The second she’s gone, the noise of the place settles around us. More intimate. The band in the corner slides into something slow and gritty. Someone laughs too loudly by the pool tables. Glass clinks. Ice shifts. Sage turns her drink in her hand and takes a sip.

And I watch her.

I always do. But sometimes it hits with enough force that it feels new.

She’s tired. I can see it in the slight heaviness around her eyes, the way her shoulders are only mostly dropped, like some part of her still expects impact. But she came anyway. She stood through her first day back in that diner, in that haunted little pocket of her life, and then she got in my car and let me bring her somewhere loud and ordinary and stupidly antlered.

Nothing with Sage is small.

From the first moment I held her under the jetty, shaking and filled with adrenaline after her first kill, I knew my life was changed. I’m not sure what it was I expected—or even what I thought would happen that night I snuck into her room and we ended up sleeping together. But I do know I wasn’t expecting what we’ve become.

I wasn’t expecting her to fit into us like she was always there, some missing element the whole group rebuilt itself around without knowing it.

And I definitely wasn’t expecting to fall this hard.

“You’re staring,” she says, halfway through her drink.

“I’m admiring.”

“Mm.” She takes another sip, eyes on the stage. “Dangerous habit.”

“I save it for special occasions and you.”

“That doesn’t make it sound less dangerous.”

“It wasn’t meant to.”

That gets me a sideways look over the rim of her glass. Dry. Warm. Tired in a way that makes me want to put her somewhere soft and keep the world back with both hands. But there’s color in her cheeks now, and some of the brittle edge that clung to her after work has eased. That was the point. Not distraction exactly. Something gentler. A better night laid down on top of a bad one, until the bad one has to share.

I lift my drink and taste smoke, citrus, bourbon. “So,” I say, “first impressions?”

She scans the room again. “The taxidermy remains unforgivable. But the music’s good, your bartender friend is cool, and nobody in here appears to be stalking me.”