The Icehouse door swings open, spilling warm light and the tail end of a country song into the cool night. The smell of fried food and stale beer clings to my hair as I step outside. Shelby's right behind me, her heels clicking against the cracked pavement like tiny sparks. Laughter follows us out—our friends are still posed up at the bar, voices rising and falling like waves against the hum of the band.
The parking lot is a patchwork of shadows and neon glow, puddles catching the red and blue of the beer signs like tiny mirrors. My breath fogs in the chill, and I pull my jacket tighter, wishing I'd worn something thicker than this paper-thin denim. Shelby doesn't seem to notice the cold; she's too busy humming along to the song still stuck in her head, her phone lighting up her face as she checks her messages.
"God, I love this place," she says, tossing her hair like we're in a music video. "It's got that whole small-town-meets-dive-bar aesthetic. Rustic, but make it Instagram."
I laugh, because she's not wrong. The Icehouse is all mismatched chairs, sticky floors, and a jukebox that eats your dollar half the time—but it's ours.
We weave through the maze of cars, the gravel crunching under our boots, and slide into her car. The seats are cool and cause me to shiver, and the faint scent of Shelby's vanilla air freshener mixes with the lingering aroma of our fries from the takeout bag in the backseat. Shelby cranks the heat, and the vents cough out a blast of lukewarm air that smells faintly like dust.
As she pulls out of the lot, the headlights sweep across the faded mural on the side of the building—a cowboy tipping his hat, forever frozen in a sunset that's peeling at the edges. For some reason, it feels like a goodbye.
The road stretches ahead, dark and empty, the kind of quiet that makes you feel like the world has folded in on itself. The streetlights smear into golden streaks as we speed down the empty road, the hum of Shelby's old Honda filling the silence between us. My forehead rests against the cool glass, and I watch the world blur by like a watercolor painting someone left out in the rain.
"No," I say finally, breaking the quiet. "I don't think he's your average guy next door."
Shelby glances at me, one eyebrow arched like she's waiting for the punchline.
I keep my eyes on the road ahead, because if I look at her, I'll lose my nerve. "He's got that whole mysterious, maybe-I-broke-out-of-a-prison-in-Santorini vibe. You know? Like… dangerous, but in a way that makes you want to lean closer instead of run."
Her jaw drops. "Excuse me?"
"And," I add, because apparently I've decided to dig this hole deeper, "he compared my eyes to emeralds. Like, actual emeralds."
Shelby makes a sound that's somewhere between a gasp and a squeal, nearly choking on her excitement. The car swerves a little, and I grab the door handle.
"Stop. Stop it right now." She slaps the steering wheel for emphasis. "Did you just say emeralds? Girl, either he's a smooth-talking poet… or he's 100% on the run from Interpol."
"Oh, for sure," I deadpan, because sarcasm is my only defense mechanism at this point. "I've seen enough true crime documentaries to know the type. He probably fakes identities by day and seduces emotionally unavailable women by night."
Shelby smirks, her lip gloss catching the glow of the dashboard lights. "Which makes you what? Target number seventeen?"
"I'm not emotionally unavailable," I say, offended enough to sit up straighter.
She snorts so hard it sounds painful. "Please. You flinch when a man breathes too close to your aura."
"Touché," I mutter, sinking back into the seat.
Without warning, she reaches across the console and grabs my face, squishing my cheeks together like we're five years old again. "Still. Emeralds? That's so specific. He's either in love with you… or has a jewel heist obsession."
I laugh, pulling away and smoothing my hair like that'll erase the humiliation. "You are so lucky I love you."
"I know." She grins, smug as ever. "But seriously, your eyes are insane. If I had those, I'd be batting them at every man with a pulse—and probably a few without."
"Gross," I say, wrinkling my nose. "Zombie flirtation is where you draw the line?"
"Don't knock it until you've tried it," she sings, then adds with a wicked grin, "But if this Will guy shows up in a tux and asks you to run away to the Greek islands, say yes. I'll pack your bags."
"I don't even know him," I protest, though the image of him in a tux does dangerous things to my pulse. "He could be dangerous."
She wiggles her eyebrows like a cartoon villain. "Exactly. That's half the appeal."
We both burst out laughing—the kind of laugh that knots your stomach and makes your eyes water, the kind that feels like home. For a moment, the car is filled with nothing but our voices and the faint hum of the radio, some old pop song crackling through the speakers.
Then her tone shifts—just a little—as she glances at me out of the corner of her eye. "But real talk… you felt something, didn't you?"
The question hangs in the air like smoke.
I go quiet.
Because yeah. I did.
And I would rather not say it out loud. Not yet. Everything still feels like a dream; I'm undecided if it's good or bad.
Shelby must sense it, because she doesn't push. She just lets the silence stretch, then flicks the blinker on. The rhythmic click fills the car as we turn onto my street, the headlights cutting through the dark like twin blades.
"Want to crash at my place tonight?" she asks softly.
"I better head home," I say, forcing a smile. "I've got work tomorrow. And I need to… think."
She doesn't argue, just pulls into my driveway and idles there, the engine humming like a lullaby. The porch light casts a pale glow across the front steps, and for some reason, it feels like stepping into another world.
"You'll call me if he shows up outside your window like a mythic stalker prince, right?" she says as I unbuckle my seatbelt.
"Obviously," I smirk, trying to keep it light. "You're my first call. Right after 911."
She grins, gives me a mock salute, and pulls away, taillights disappearing into the night.
Trying to keep my balance while walking, I turn toward the front door, fishing for my keys. My heart is still beating too fast for comfort after the night I just had. The air is cool and damp, carrying the faint scent of rain-soaked earth and something else—something electric, like ozone before a storm.
And then I feel it.
That tug. That strange, invisible thread pulling tight in my chest.
Like I'm being watched.
I stop dead on the walkway, keys clutched in my fist. Slowly, I glance over my shoulder.
Nothing.
Just wind teasing the branches, shadows stretching long across the pavement, and the heavy silence of a neighborhood asleep.
Still… I can't shake it.
The hairs on the back of my neck rise, and my pulse drums in my ears like a warning I can't quite translate.
Finally, I force myself to move, each step up the porch feeling heavier than the last. The key scrapes against the lock before sliding home, and I slip inside, closing the door with a soft click that sounds too loud in the quiet.
I lean against the wood for a second, breathing in the familiar scent of home—vanilla candles, laundry detergent, and the faint trace of Shelby's perfume from the bar tonight. Safe smells. Ordinary smells.
But my heart doesn't get the memo.
Because even as I lock the deadbolt and drop my keys in the bowl by the door, one thought keeps circling like a vulture:
What if he wasn't finished with me yet?