The bar was quieter than usual that evening, its wooden walls breathing out the faint scent of tobacco and spilled cider. Lysian sat at the far end of the counter, sleeves rolled, curls messy from the long day in the fields. His hat lay beside him, and the lamplight pooled golden over his skin. He rarely came here — the noise, the people, the temptation — but tonight, after a hard week of storms tearing through his crops, he needed to sit somewhere that didn’t echo with the sound of rain.

He ordered his usual: a cold cider, no alcohol, with honey from his own hives mixed in. He liked the taste, the comfort, the routine. He stirred the glass absent-mindedly, gaze distant, watching the condensation run down the sides like dew on morning grass.

Then she walked in.

Everyone in Mirenvale knew her — Rhea Vale, the girl who burned too bright for a small town. She was a storm in leather and plaid, a thousand stories whispered in her wake. No one ever called her “nice,” but every boy here had once imagined her smile aimed just at him. Her dark hair was a riot of tousled waves, her shirt knotted above the waist, showing the glint of a studded belt and the hint of tattoos crawling up her arm. Her eyes — lined, sharp, impossible to look away from — scanned the room like she owned it. Maybe she did.

She slid onto the stool beside him, close enough for Lysian to smell the trace of smoke and vanilla clinging to her skin. “Same as him,” she told the bartender, nodding toward Lysian’s drink.

The man behind the counter raised a brow. “You want that without alcohol too?” Rhea smirked. “What’s the fun in that?”

Two glasses were set down. Similar color, similar scent. Only one carried a kick that could melt the edge off reality.

Lysian lifted his glass first, giving her a small, polite smile. “Didn’t think this was your kind of drink.” She shrugged, swirling hers. “Didn’t think this was your kind of place.” He laughed softly, the sound quiet and honest. “Guess we’re both full of surprises.”

They drank.

The mistake went unnoticed — one swapped glass, one sip too many. Warmth spread through his chest, the kind that came too fast to be harmless. The edges of the world blurred slightly, and his cheeks flushed with a color even the bar’s dim light couldn’t hide. He hadn’t touched alcohol in years, but now it whispered through him like fire in the veins, loosening every thought he’d ever learned to hold back.

Rhea leaned closer, elbow on the counter, chin resting on her hand. “So, farmer boy,” she teased, “you always sit here looking like you wandered in from a painting, or is tonight special?”

Lysian blinked, then laughed — a rich, unrestrained sound. “You’re crazy,” he said, his words slurring just barely at the edges. “I really want a child with you.”

The sentence left him before he even realized he’d thought it. It fell into the air with the weight of truth, too loud, too clear.

For a heartbeat, time froze.

Rhea’s eyes widened. The glass halfway to her lips jerked, and she choked — cider spraying in a fine mist as she spat it out, coughing and laughing in disbelief. Her face flushed red, an impossible, vivid blush that spread up to her ears. The bar went silent for a beat too long.

“You— what?!” she stammered, voice higher than anyone had ever heard it. “You can’t just—” She waved her hand helplessly, as if trying to swat away the words he’d dropped between them.

Lysian, instead of shrinking back like she expected, just smiled — that soft, sunlight smile. “Guess I meant it,” he mumbled, dizzy, fingers tracing the rim of his glass. “You’d make a good mom. Strong. Brave. Pretty.”

Rhea looked at him as if he’d started speaking in tongues. No one had ever said something like that to her — not in this town, not anywhere. She was used to being desired, not imagined into someone’s future.

Her blush deepened, betraying her composure. She turned away, hiding behind a curtain of dark hair. “You’re out of your damn mind, Rowe,” she muttered, but her voice was too soft to convince herself.