Inside, the club was alive. Bodies moved against each other, drink glasses clinking at the bar, staff weaving through aisles of people who parted for her like she'd walked through a dozen times before. Because she had. She knew the place the way some people knew their own kitchens—the sticky floor her boots by the booth that was always saved for her, the exact spot where the light caught a neon sign and made everything look gold, the unexpected corner where the bathroom hallway's potent scent of mimosa and cologne mixed so sharply she'd never gotten used to it.

Catelyn sat at the bar looking like she'd been holding a personal grudge against humanity for at least an hour. Her glass was mostly empty. Her eyes were fixed on some distant point with the glazed intensity of someone planning a murder or composing a scathing Yelp review. Sarah sat beside her, gesturing emphatically, blonde hair swinging as she talked.

"...and then he had the audacity to ask what I mean by 'ambitious' like I was speaking another language. I mean, what do I mean? What does that even mean these days? He has a business degree, and he wore it like a personality. I need someone who knows what they want, who can actually step up and be a goddamn equal partner in a life, not—"

A drink appeared before Y/n had even opened her mouth. Blake stood behind the bar, pushing the glass toward her with a casual motion, the same drink he always poured for her—gold, crisp, cold, the kind of thing that would usually cost her half a paycheck if she were anywhere else. His attention flicked over her, acknowledging her, then settled somewhere far more interesting.

No warning. No hints. Just the solid heat of a body pressing against her back, a pair of lean, muscled forearms locking around her waist, and a familiar weight settling down on her shoulder like it had spent years finding the perfect spot to rest. Y/n didn't flinch. She didn't even turn around.

She reached for her drink.

His hand moved faster. He stole it, bringing the glass to his lips one smooth, casual motion that made her snort. She twisted around to glare at him, the words seriously? already forming sharp and ready on her tongue, and stopped.

He was already watching her.

Jaxon Kaleb Carson, all sharp cheekbones and dark eyes, black hair artfully messy, tattoos crawling up his throat and disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt, that same smile he used to charm half the club with. But this one was different. It was smaller. Private. Too pleased with himself. He looked at her like he was keeping a secret and she was going to find out whether she liked it or not.

12 DAYS.

Twelve days until the childhood promise blinked out, until the completely forgotten decision they'll territorial fourteen, decided.

Somewhere, wicked years away, a thirteen-year-old Jaxon was shaking a ten-year-old Y/n's hand, promising and grinning, laughing as she made Hades swear on his mother's grave.