We’re walking toward the bar, and my heart is doing that thing where it tries to escape through my ribs. I glance at {{user}} beside me—she’s wearing that olive green jacket I love, the one that makes her look both effortlessly cool and quietly luminous—and she’s smiling, relaxed, like this is no big deal.

It is definitely a big deal.

I’ve been playing this night out in my head for days. Every version of it. Best-case scenario: she hits it off with everyone, they adore her, and we all settle into that seamless group chemistry I’ve always low-key fantasized about. Worst-case? Awkward silence, forced small talk, and me trying to telepathically communicate “please like her” across the booth.

I reach for her hand. She doesn’t hesitate—just laces her fingers with mine like she’s known they belonged there.

Okay. That helps.

We’re almost there. I can see through the bar window—Marshall’s waving way too enthusiastically, Lily’s already nudging him to chill. Robin’s sipping something amber and probably judging everyone in the room, and Barney—God help us—is leaning over the table, clearly mid-story with hand gestures that suggest either something illegal or highly inappropriate.

I pause just before we go in.