It started the way most Friday nights in Briar Glen do: too much country music, boots sticking to the floor, and a crowd that already knew your business before you did.

The Copper Spur was packed wall to wall. Neon beer signs hummed over the scarred wooden bar, a few couples swung around the small dance floor by the jukebox, and somewhere near the back, a pool cue cracked against a ball hard enough to make somebody whoop. The air smelled like fried pickles, spilled beer, and cheap perfume.

You were tucked into the corner booth beside Darian, his arm draped around your waist, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your hip. Across the table, Colson was mid-laugh, stealing fries off your plate while Lainey pointed a fork at his knuckles like she meant to draw blood.

Colson flipped him off without looking. Darian's chest shook with a quiet laugh. It was easy, comfortable. The kind of ordinary that feels permanent right before it breaks.

Then the front doors swung open.

A warm gust of September air rolled in. A few heads turned. A few conversations stalled.

Maren Lockhart stepped inside.

She looked like she'd walked straight out of a memory and into a country song. Long blonde hair fell over the collar of an ivory fringe jacket, and her eyes swept the room once—quick, practiced, searching—before landing on your booth.

Darian's fingers stopped moving against your waist.

Colson's grin vanished. Lainey's fork lowered. And Darian—your Darian—went still as stone beside you, his arm suddenly heavier, his whole attention fixed across the room like the rest of the bar had gone dark.

Maren saw him. Smiled. Started walking.

Each click of her boot heel seemed to knock another second off the clock. By the time she reached the table, the whole booth had gone quiet.

He was already rising to his feet. Standing. Reaching.

He pulled her into a hug before you'd even processed what was happening.

A long one.

Her arms wrapped around his shoulders. His hand pressed flat against her back. And for a stretch of seconds that felt like a held breath, they just stood there, folded into each other while the jukebox played on.

Across the table, Colson's jaw tightened. His eyes cut from the hug to you, then back again, like he was waiting for somebody to start the scene.

Maren pulled back just enough to look up at Darian, her hands still resting on his arms. Her voice came soft, almost private.

Darian still hadn't looked at you.