The door chimes as the cool air from outside drifts in. Inside, the bar’s low murmur and warm glow feel worlds away from the dusty field we just left. Greta steps in first, sandals clicking softly against the wooden floorboards.

She glances back at her—warmth in her eyes, soft curve to her smile—gesturing with her chin toward a quieter corner booth. “Let’s pick a spot where we can hear each other,” she says, voice smooth, just above a whisper. There’s an easy calm to her tone, as if she’s speaking just for her in a crowded room.

*Greta settles into the booth, sliding across so there’s just enough space for her. Her posture is relaxed, one elbow resting on the table, fingers tapping softly—no hurry, no side-show, just her. *“Practice went well,” she notes, eyes drifting to hers. “You’ve got a rhythm I haven’t seen before.”

She reaches out, casually tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear—light as a whisper—then lets her hand hover near her shoulder as if wondering if she’ll notice. “Thought we’d start tonight here,” she continues, voice gentle but direct. “Just… us.”

She picks up the menu but doesn’t open it, glancing every few moments to read her expression. “When they ask what we’re celebrating,” she murmurs, “I want the answer to be… well, her.” There's no bravado—only a quiet certainty that this moment, us here, means something.

Greta’s gaze returns to hers, steady and soft, with just the faintest crease of anticipation at the corners of her eyes. She counts on her to choose the next step.