Friday After Work

The last email sent at 6:47 p.m. didn’t stop buzzing in Celeste Marlowe’s head as she slid into the corner booth at Harper’s Bar, because Harper’s Bar never let anyone forget they were still in the world - still in a body, still in a week that had teeth.

The air was warm with spilled whiskey and citrus peel, the kind of warm that clung to long red hair and made it feel heavier, slower. The bar’s lights were dim in the flattering way that didn’t flatter the bruises under her eyes. A low thrum of music sat under the conversation like a second heartbeat. Celeste set her tote bag in her lap, unzipped it just enough to make sure her phone and keys were where she’d left them, then closed it again with a quiet, satisfied click.

She ordered a simple gin and tonic without asking anyone for suggestions. Friday after work meant she wanted clean lines and predictable glassware. She wanted to be noticed, maybe - just enough to remind her she hadn’t spent the week arguing with people who thought her calm meant she was soft - but not enough to be dragged into anything messier than a second drink.

She took her first sip and let the cold bite calm her tongue. Her gaze moved across the room the way it always did - brief, clinical, then gone. People were loud tonight. Bodies pressed together in the booth clusters and along the bar rail. Laughter rose in waves, then fell away. Celeste’s mouth turned down at the corners of her own smile, not because she was unhappy, but because she was tired of being the person who kept things from spilling.

Then the stool beside her scraped.

Not the loud kind of scrape - Harper’s Bar was a place that swallowed noise and kept it simmering - but a sharp, deliberate sound, like someone had decided they were going to be brave about taking space. Celeste turned her head just enough to see him without looking like she was hunting.

Rowan Pierce was young enough to make her instincts misfire. Not in the dramatic way - no stars aligning, no obvious contrast - but in the everyday way her mind did math and came up with a number she didn’t like. He had dark hair that refused to behave, a fitted jacket that made his shoulders look built for something other than a desk, and eyes that flicked over her with quick, amused appraisal.

He didn’t sit like a man waiting to be served. He sat like he’d already decided he belonged here.

The bartender slid a drink toward him without Celeste asking, and Rowan took it with a grin that flashed too fast to be careful. He leaned slightly toward the space beside Celeste, the distance between them shrinking by inches, then said, low enough to be meant for her and loud enough to be heard.

“Tell me if I’m wrong,” he said, “but that booth corner looks like it was designed for people who don’t want to be perceived.”

Celeste’s gin paused halfway to her mouth. The question wasn’t a question. It was a joke with teeth.

Her first reaction was irritation - because she didn’t like being categorized, even by strangers - and her second reaction was curiosity, because his timing was good and his voice had that easy rhythm of someone who knew how to talk without asking permission.

“You’re wrong,” she said, setting the glass down with a deliberate gentleness. “It’s designed for people who want to be left alone until they change their mind.”

Rowan’s eyebrows lifted. He glanced at her glass as if it might explain her, then back at her face. “So you changed your mind.”

“I’m still alone,” Celeste said. She let her gaze travel over him the way she’d traveled over opposing counsel’s hands - briefly, for evidence. “You just moved in.”

He laughed under his breath, and the sound brushed against her like warmth from a heater. “Moving in implies I’m staying.”

“Are you?”

Rowan’s smile didn’t falter. He shrugged in a way that made him look like he could either be trouble or harmless, depending on how you wanted to read him. “For tonight? Maybe.”

The bar around them kept roaring. Someone at the far end knocked their glass over, a quick clatter that made heads turn and then return to their conversations. Celeste felt the crowd’s heat through the thin fabric of her dress sleeves. She could smell the citrus cleaner on the tabletop and the faint tang of gin from her own hand.

Rowan tilted his drink toward her like a toast he wasn’t sure she’d accept. “I’m Rowan.”

“I’m Celeste.”

He repeated it softly, like he liked the shape of it. “Celeste.”

Her name sounded different coming from him - less official, less sharp. She didn’t like that effect either. She liked her name in court filings. She liked it on the hard edge of her authority.

Rowan leaned in again, just enough to make the next comment hover close to her ear. “Okay, I’ve got another theory. Your drink choice is… responsible.”

Celeste’s lips pressed together. “Gin and tonic is responsible?”

“It’s the drink you order when you want to be able to remember what you said,” he countered....