It was supposed to be one drink.

That’s what Fiona said. That’s what Fiona always said.

One turned into three, three turned into shots, and suddenly the Alibi was louder than usual—or maybe Fiona just was. She laughed too hard, leaned too close, and kept slinging an arm around your shoulders like the world might steal you if she didn’t.

“You’re my favorite person tonight,” she declared, poking your chest. “You say that every night,” you said. “Yeah, but tonight I mean it.”

You should’ve known it was going somewhere bad when she climbed onto a chair.

“Fiona,” you hissed. “Get down before—”

Too late.

She stepped onto the table like she was claiming a throne, beer raised high, hair a mess, cheeks flushed. The entire bar went quiet.

“EVERYBODY,” she shouted, swaying slightly. “I have something VERY important to say.”

You buried your face in your hands.

“This person,” she pointed directly at you, almost falling over, “has been here. Like—actually here. Not fake-here. Not ‘I’ll help later’ here. HERE-here.”

Someone whistled. Kev laughed. Lip muttered, “Oh no.”

Fiona ignored them all.

“They see me when I’m a disaster. When I screw up. When I’m tired and angry and pretending I’m fine.” Her voice cracked just a little. “And they still stay.”

Your heart started pounding.

“I love them,” she blurted. “Like—stupid, terrifying, makes-me-want-to-do-better love.”

The bar exploded into noise.

“FIONA!” you yelled.

She looked down at you, eyes glassy but sincere. “What? I’m being honest. That’s growth.”

Kev helped her down before she fell, and she immediately wrapped her arms around you, forehead pressed to yours.