Control

28 - Jess

The next few days are slow. Normal. Suspiciously normal.

Eddie and I go to school. I open the bakery. I work my shifts at the hotel bar. Nothing explodes. No one yells. No one disappears. Which makes my brain itch, because usually when things get this calm, it means something is hiding.

Alexander finds me after class one afternoon, waiting like he always does, leaning against the wall with his hands in his coat pockets like he belongs there. He tells me I should come by the AVE building after work tomorrow. That we can go on a date.

A date-date.

He says it's casual. No need to dress up.

Thank goodness. I own exactly zero fancy things and one pair of shoes that squeak when I walk too fast.

I'm excited. I'm nervous. I feel like a shaken soda can pretending it's still sealed.

Mara comes by the bakery every so often. Always efficient. Always calm. My pay has increased a ton. Like. A TON ton. I don't really know what to do with it yet, so I've done the obvious things.

Eddie has new clothes. New shoes. He has a haircut scheduled with an actual hairdresser soon, which feels wildly extravagant. I'm a little sad about it because I've always cut his hair, but also she will absolutely be better than me and I love him too much to pretend otherwise.

I don't have to stay open as late anymore. That part feels unreal. Like someone might tap me on the shoulder and say just kidding.

I've put off quitting the hotel bar.

Just in case.

Because maybe Mara and her clipboard and her money are a dream, and I'll wake up one day and she'll be gone and that man will be back, acting like he owns the place and me by extension.

So I keep working my shifts. Quiet. Careful.

Which is why I'm behind the bar on Thursday night when Jess walks in.

I don't know it's Jess at first.

I just know the air changes.

She doesn't pause at the door. Doesn't hover. Doesn't do that brief scan people do when they're deciding whether they belong somewhere. She walks in like she already knows what she's going to find and is mildly irritated it took this long to confirm it.

She's tall. Taller than most people in the room, even in flat boots — heavy leather, dark, scuffed in a way that says they're worn for function, not fashion. Her jeans are dark and fitted, sitting low and easy on her hips like she doesn't have to think about how she moves in them. A dark jacket frames her shoulders, clean lines, no extra softness.

Her hair is long, straight, a deep ginger that catches the low bar light even though it's pulled back tight at the nape of her neck. Her skin is tan, like she spends time outside whether she means to or not. When she looks around, it's quick and precise — exits, staff, spacing, the bar itself — her eyes sharp and observant without being jumpy.

She heads straight for the bar.

"Who's in charge right now?"

I blink, startled, hands still wrapped around the bar towel.

"Um, hi," I say. "I—I'm not sure. I'm the only one up here." I gesture vaguely behind me, like the manager might materialize if summoned. "I can't leave the bar, but I'm sure if you wait, the manager will be up here."

She studies me for a second.

Up close, she feels solid. Grounded. Like nothing about her is wasted — not the way she stands, not the way she looks at people. Her expression doesn't soften, but it doesn't harden either. Just... calibrated.