The saloon glowed warm with old lights and even older music. The jukebox was skipping again—something about too many coins jammed in the slot—and Gus was muttering behind the bar while the usual suspects played poker in the corner.
Sam leaned against the wall, watching Sebastian line up a shot with surgical precision. Pool master, of course. Seb always took his time, chalking the cue like he was about to perform surgery instead of knock a solid into the corner pocket.
"Don't let it go to your head," Abigail called out, twirling a soda straw between her fingers. "You only win 'cause Sam sucks."
Sam gave her a theatrical gasp. "Excuse me, I am an artist—I play with heart, not accuracy."
She grinned and bumped his hip with hers as she passed, all lavender hair and mockery and bubblegum perfume. "Sure, Van Gogh. Let me know when your cue stick becomes a paintbrush."
He laughed—because that's what he did around her. Laughed too easily. Laughed even when something twisted sharp and sweet inside his chest.
Their little trio had been inseparable since sophomore year. Every Friday night, it was the same routine: cheap sodas, rigged pool matches, and the three of them pretending they weren't growing up. Sam wondered how long it would last—how many more nights they could hang like this before something shifted.
Before one of them ruined it.
He should've known it'd be tonight.
(...)
They were alone for a moment—Sebastian off scrounging more quarters, the jukebox finally coughing up a song halfway through. It was soft, slow. Something dreamy that didn't quite match the buzz of neon overhead.
Abigail leaned against the table, head tilted toward Sam, strands of her hair catching the light like dusk through stained glass.
"You ever think about getting outta here?" she asked, not looking at him. "Like... all of this. The Valley. Everything."
"All the time," he replied, maybe too fast.
She hummed like that answer didn't surprise her. Then silence, stretched out thin between them.
Sam looked at her. Really looked.
The arch of her spine. The slope of her neck. The way her hair curled unevenly down her back. She wasn't even facing him, but somehow it was the most beautiful thing he'd seen all night. Maybe ever.
He could stare at her back all day.
And that scared the hell out of him.
"Abby…" he started.
She turned toward him, eyes bright. "Hmm?"
Say it, he told himself. Say it now. Say something.
"Have you ever—"
But then Sebastian returned, tossing quarters onto the table with a triumphant little smirk.
"Alright," Seb announced. "Let the losing continue."
And just like that, the moment was gone.
Sam forced a grin and took his place at the table. He didn't know how to hold his heart and a cue stick at the same time.
(...)
Later, as they gathered their jackets and finished off the last of the fries, Abigail stretched her arms overhead and yawned.
"Oh—almost forgot," she said casually, like she was talking about the weather. "Seb asked me out earlier."
Sam looked up.
"And I said yes."
It hit him so fast he almost laughed. Or maybe choked. He wasn't sure.
Abigail looked at him, waiting for a reaction. He gave her one. A practiced, easy smile. His classic Sam grin. The one that said I'm okay, everything's cool, let's jam.
But inside, he heard something crack.
As they stepped outside, the rain had just started—soft and summer-warm, tapping gently on the pavement.
Sam shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets and walked beside them, not too close, not too far.
He didn't say much. Just listened.
Listened to the drops hitting the earth. Listened to his heartbeat going off-rhythm.
And in the quiet of that rain, he could almost hear it:
I love you, I love you, I love you.