Chapter 1: A Few Small Beers
She wondered if writer’s block was just another symptom of a life grown too quiet.
Molly Johnstone swirled the pale whiskey in her tumbler, watching the ice melt. The city bar was a cozy cave, a humid pocket of noise cut through by amber light from low-hanging industrial lamps. The mirror behind the bottles reflected a version of herself she was growing to understand too well: her cool blue-grey eyes a bit tired, the ash-and-honey of her hair looking like it hadn’t seen a stylist since a seminar three states ago. Doctor, writer, speaker, ghost, she ticked them off. Four roles that added up, on nights like this, to a shape and the outline of silence.
That’s when she notices Gavin amongst his mates. Her gaze, drifting absently over the crowd, snagged on the sharp line of a jaw, the easy drape of a soft tee over lean shoulders. He threw his head back with a laugh, the sound lost in the din but the shape of it clear in the cords of his throat. A sudden, unbidden image flashed in her mind: her mouth on that throat, her teeth testing the give of his skin, her hands pushing up that tee to feel the flat planes of his stomach tense.
Christ, she thought, taking a slow sip of whiskey, the heat of it doing nothing to cool the low, startling pulse between her legs. Why him? Why now, in this fucking tourist trap, did her body decide to wake up? He was a boy, really, all casual energy and unlined hands. She watched him run one of those hands through his sandy hair and felt a corresponding twist deep in her gut. It was purely chemical, this stupid, hungry lick of want. She knew the mechanics of it, the stupid biology, the social construction of the ‘cougar’ narrative she’d deconstructed in a footnote ten years ago.
Yet knowing did fuck-all to stop the fantasy: his weight pinning her in this very booth, the rough catch of his jeans against her inner thighs, the clean, sweaty smell of him drowning out the stale bar air.
“Pathetic,” she muttered to her glass, the word a warm, dry joke at her own expense. But her eyes didn’t move. He turned, scanning the room, and his blue-grey eyes met hers. He didn’t look away. A faint, curious smile touched his lips, and he said something to his friend, never breaking the connection. Molly held it, one eyebrow lifting a millimeter in cool appraisal, even as her heart hammered a ragged, teenage rhythm against her ribs.
The contact held for three more beats before he broke it, turning back to his friends with a slow, deliberate nod. Molly let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and finished her whiskey, the last warm dregs doing nothing to settle the restless ache pooling low in her belly. She set the empty glass down with a definitive click.
When she looked up, he was standing beside her table. He smelled like cheap beer and good soap. “You looked like you needed a reload,” Gavin said, his Australian accent smooth and easy. He already had a fresh tumbler of amber liquid in his hand, which he placed carefully on the coaster in front of her.
“That’s presumptuous,” Molly said, her voice a dry rasp she cleared quietly.
“Is it?” He slid into the booth opposite her, his movements fluid. “You were staring a hole in the side of my head. Figured I owed you a drink for the view.”
A laugh, surprisingly genuine, escaped her. “Confident.”
“Nervous, actually,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. His eyes, the same cool blue-grey as her own but warmer, held hers. “Your ‘I’m-weighing-your-soul’ look is fucking intimidating. I’m Gavin.”
“Molly.” She took the new glass, her fingers brushing his. A static jolt, imagined or real, passed between them. “And I was. Weighing your soul. It’s… surprisingly heavy for a boy in a band tee.”
“Well, it’s a Joy Division shirt,” he said, a slow grin spreading. “That’s basically soul-weight, right there.”
“Point taken.” She took a sip, the whiskey smoother this time. The ice hadn’t yet begun to melt. “So, Gavin. What does one with a soul and shirt like that do on a Monday?”
“Usually, I don't grab drinks for the hot scowling women I meet,” he said, leaning forward. His voice dropped, intimate against the bar’s buzz. “But I’m making an exception tonight.”
Molly rolls her eyes, groaning "Oh God." But she's clearly not disillusioned. He smirks. His words hung in the air, a warm challenge that cut through the bar's noise and settled directly in the hollow of Molly's throat. “Maybe that’s your first mistake,” she said, leaning forward slightly.
The whiskey glass, now cool and damp, left a circle of condensation on the polished wood between them. She could trace its outline, keep the conversation right there, in the practiced wryness of a woman who knew better. Instead, she let the moment stretch, watching his jaw clench just a fraction.
Molly’s face twisted, a faint wince breaking through her composed mask as she realised she’d been too biting in her words. “Shit. That was unnecessarily savage, even for me.”
She accepted the drink, her fingers wrapping around the cool glass, and downed half of it in one long, burning pull. She kept the conversation going, her voice softening just a notch. “What are you studying?”
“Film and media,” Gavin said, his shoulders loosening at the shift in tone. He tapped a finger against his own glass. “With a minor in existential dread and a freelance gig fixing rich people’s Wi-Fi.”
“Ah. Renaissance man,” Molly mused, a genuine smile touching her lips. She let her thigh brush against his under the table, a point of contact that sent a current up her spine. “And what does a film student make of a woman drinking alone, writing mental footnotes on everyone she sees?”
“I think she’s probably overthinking it,” he said, his hand settling on her knee, his thumb stroking the inside of her thigh. The heat of his palm bled through her jeans. “And I think the guy buying her drinks is just trying to get her to stop thinking for a few minutes.”
“Is that what you’re doing?” Her breath hitched as his thumb pressed a little harder.
“Yeah.” His voice was low, a gravelly confession. “I’m fucking desperate for it, to be honest."
He leaned in, his breath warm and tasting of hops. “Your place?”
She nods.