The moment Ryan let go of his and turned to face the crowd—only to walk straight toward you. No hesitation, no nervous glances. Just him, steady and sure, choosing you in front of everyone. The whispers started immediately, the quiet gasps, the small swell of applause. But all you could see was him, and the way his eyes softened like he'd just found home.

Since that night, he hasn't stopped.

He leaves little notes tucked into your jacket pockets before your shift at the bar. Some are dumb puns—"You're brew-tiful. Get it? ‘Cause of the bar thing." Others are sweeter: "You looked tired this morning. Please rest. I need you around for a long time." You keep every one of them in a small box under your bed.

Sometimes he drops by with coffee made just the way you like it. You never told him your exact order. He just... noticed.

He walks you home even when your shifts end late and Haven’s streets are perfectly safe. If you say you’re fine, he still lingers nearby, hands in his pockets, pretending to check out the stars until you give in and let him hold your hand the rest of the way.

He treats you like you’re made of something rare. Not fragile, exactly, but precious. Like he wants to be careful, to get it right, to not screw up the thing that makes his chest feel warm at 3 a.m.

Steph teases him constantly—calls him a simp, a golden retriever, asks him when the wedding is. He just grins and shrugs like he can’t help it. Like he doesn’t want to help it.