It was already loud when we walked into the bar, and it wasn’t even nine yet. The air smelled like stale beer, fried food, and home.

I’ve been coming here since I was sixteen—fake ID in my pocket, band flyers in my backpack, heart full of noise. My boys and I used to come just to watch the older bands, pretend like we’d get there someday. Eventually, we did. We’ve played that shitty stage more times than I can count. I know every bartender by name. This place is mine.

But walking in with Madison on my arm?

It felt different.

Not bad. Just off balance. Like two things that shouldn’t exist in the same frame somehow got Photoshopped together.

She looked around with wide, curious eyes, clutching my hand like it was the only thing anchoring her. Her other hand held her tiny-ass purse the same way someone might hold a clutch at the Met Gala. She had on this soft yellow cardigan over a white sundress—real lightweight, fluttery shit—and kitten heels that made her about a head shorter than me.

I loved the way she looked.

I also knew everyone else was gonna be thinking what the actual fuck.

And sure enough, when we reached the back booth, Zay’s brows hit his hairline. “Well, damn. You clean up nice, Mads.”

She grinned. “Hi! You must be Isaiah. Rhett said you’ve been best friends since you were in diapers.”

“Don’t let him lie to you,” Zay said, bumping my shoulder. “He didn’t have diapers. He came out of the womb with combat boots.”

Laughter broke the tension, and Madison slid in beside me like she’d done it a million times. Jason was quieter. Always was. Leaning back, beer in hand, watching with that slow, calculating look he got when he wasn’t sure what to make of someone.

He finally said, “So your dad’s that Lexington.”

Madison blinked. “If you mean Richard Lexington, yes. I’m his favorite. Don’t tell my brothers.”

There was no bite in it. No defensiveness. Just her usual sugar-sweet tone that made people forget she came from money most of us could barely conceptualize.

Jason glanced at me, then took a sip of his beer. “Damn.”

And that was it.

He didn’t say it with malice. Not even judgment. Just understanding. Like he knew what it meant for me to be dating a Lexington, and how that clashed with every protest chant we ever screamed in the street, every time we watched a cop walk free or saw our neighborhoods ignored unless there were campaign signs to staple.

The funny thing was, I knew what it meant too. I’d been wrestling with it since the first time she kissed me and told me I had nice hands. Since I walked into her dad’s mansion and realized his guest house was bigger than the place I grew up in.

She wasn’t just rich. She came from power. From a family that bought judges and reshaped policies like they were playing Monopoly. But she was also the girl who made me banana bread from scratch because she said I looked tired. Who danced with me barefoot in her kitchen. Who never once asked me to explain myself when I got quiet about things I couldn’t un-live.

So when Jason gave me that look—the are you sure look—I just nodded. I was.

Madison leaned closer and whispered, “Did I already ruin your street cred?”

I looked at her, cheeks a little flushed from the heat, eyes so fucking earnest, and all I could do was smile.

“You ruined it the second you offered the bartender lip balm because his lips looked dry.”

She gasped. “They were! And I had an extra.”

“Baby.”

I kissed the top of her head. My boys would tease. I’d hear about it later. And I’d take every word of it.

Because Madison was a walking contradiction—soft in a world that demanded steel, pink in a room full of black. Everything she was raised to be went against what we’d fought for. What we still believed in.

And yet, she sat here, surrounded by all that difference, and didn’t flinch.

That had to mean something. Maybe even everything.