And in that quiet, steady moment—with her hand over mine, with Lo watching me without pushing, with Ezra’s calm certainty still lingering in the space he’d left behind—I felt the decision settle into place before I could question it.
Northbend wasn’t a possibility. It was going to be my future.
CHAPTER 5
ALOIS
PRESENT DAY
The door to Matt’s stuck for half a second before it gave.
It always did.
Wood swollen from years of harsh Minnesota weather, hinges that had learned how to complain without ever quite failing. I leaned into it with my shoulder out of habit, felt the resistance give way, and stepped inside to the same low hum that seemed to shut the world the heck up for a while.
Warm. Dim. Alive in a way that didn’t ask anything from you.
The smell wafted in as I took a deep breath—grease, grilled beef, onions caramelizing on an aged flat-top behind the bar, timeworn wood soaked with decades of beer and stories that didn’t belong to anyone anymore. It wrapped around you instead of cutting through you.
A few heads turned when I came in. Not many. That was the point.
Matt’s wasn’t a hockey bar. No jerseys hanging from the ceiling. No highlight reels looping on a dozen screens. A couple TVs mounted high in the corners played whatevergame was on, volume low enough it never took over the room. People came here to eat. To drink. To sit in their own lives without interruption.
I moved through the space without breaking stride, boots heavy against the original pine flooring. The same stool near the end of the bar was open, and I slid onto it, settling my forearms against the cool surface, letting the solidity of it ground me in a way that nothing at the rink ever did.
“Rough one?” Marlene’s voice came from behind the bar before I even looked up, her tone steady, practical, and entirely unsurprised.
She stood where she always did, moving with the same efficient rhythm I’d watched a countless times before, her presence constant in a way that made the place feel anchored. Late fifties, maybe early sixties, sleeves rolled, eyes sharp enough to read a room without needing to ask questions.
“Jucy Lucy?” she added, already halfway through turning toward the grill.
I gave her a small nod. “Yeah.”
“Fries?”
“Always.”
She didn’t bother writing it down, just called it back toward the cook in one smooth motion, her voice carrying easily through the noise.
“Fear the cheese,” someone muttered a few stools down, not looking at me, and a quiet chuckle followed it.
I didn’t react. I didn’t need to. The pulse of the place didn’t require participation, and that was the point.
I settled into the space, shoulders loosening by degrees as the pressure from the game began to bleed out of my system. It didn’t leave all at once. It never did. The fight in the barn replayed anyway, the impact, the timing, the way everything slowed in that split second before contact, and I let the loop inmy mind run its course without engaging with the self-defaming thoughts.
I flexed my fingers once against the bartop, the tape wrapped around my knuckles pulling tight beneath the outer layer I hadn’t bothered removing yet. The ache sat there, steady and deep, familiar enough that I didn’t question it.
“Hell of a hit tonight.” The voice cut through the room louder than it needed to be, slurred just enough to drag the edges of the words together.
I didn’t turn. I didn’t respond. I let it pass. That was always the move. Most of the time, it worked.
A stool scraped somewhere behind me, then closer, the sound dragging across the floor in a way that set my teeth on edge before the guy dared to breath another word.
“Hey,” he pushed, leaning into it like he needed to prove something. “I’m talking to you.”
I kept my gaze on the bar, from the faint scratches in the mahogany, to the condensation forming along the sides of the plastic water cup Marlene had set down in front of me without comment. The drip slid slowly toward the base, gathering before it finally let go, falling into the shallow ring already built there.
Ignoring him wasn’t difficult.