The tavern was called The Bent Anchor, though nobody bent anchors on purpose. It sat two streets off the guildhall, close enough that you could smell the stew from the guild kitchen if the wind turned, far enough that you could pretend you weren't still part of the machine.
Ronan pushed through the door and was hit with heat, ale, and the familiar roar of men and women trying to drown out what they'd seen in the March. Lanterns swung overhead. Dice clacked. Someone sang badly on purpose. The bar's hearth burned hot enough to make the window panes sweat.
Brann had claimed a corner table like it owed him money. Tamsin sat with her back to the wall, as always, and Pike had already stolen someone's chair and was sitting on it backwards like he thought it made him look fearless.
Ysolde was there too, hands wrapped around a mug like she was deciding whether to drink it or throw it at someone.
Ronan slid into the seat Brann shoved toward him.
"Look at him," Brann boomed, loud enough to turn heads. "Fresh from the Pantheon and already thinking he's better than us."
"I'm still wearing the same boots," Ronan deadpanned.
Pike leaned in, eyes bright with drink and mischief. "Are the gods mad at you? Tell us the truth. Did you insult War Court's biceps?"
"The War god only cares about muscle," Ronan said. "Even the brain kind."
Tamsin's mouth twitched faintly. That was a smile for her. "So it's real," she said, voice steady. "You're done raiding."
Ronan watched the foam settle in his mug. "I'm done being responsible for other people dying because someone higher up wanted a story."
Ysolde snorted into her drink. "That's a poetic way to say you're tired."
Ronan didn't argue. "I'm tired."
Brann lifted his mug. "To being tired and still standing."
They clinked. The sound was small, but it rang in Ronan's chest anyway.
Pike took a long swallow and then blurted, "Innkeeper." He said it like a curse and a joke at the same time. "I still can't believe it."
"Neither can I," Ronan said.
Tamsin's gaze sharpened. "What does it feel like?"
Ronan thought about it. About that strange warmth he couldn't quite name since the Pantheon. "Like… the world wants me to stop moving," he said slowly. "Not in a 'die quietly' way. In a 'hold something steady' way."
Brann scratched his beard. "Sounds like a trap."
"It probably is," Ronan admitted. "Civic gods love traps. Just the polite kind."
Ysolde's eyes narrowed. "You'll be good at it," she said, as if it annoyed her. "You were always better at planning than fighting. Fighting just happened to be the loudest place to use it."
Ronan met her gaze. "That supposed to be a compliment?"
Ysolde shrugged. "Don't get used to it."
Pike leaned back, chair creaking. "So you're going to pour drinks for strangers and tell them to wipe their boots."
Ronan took a sip, letting the bitterness settle on his tongue. "Apparently."
Brann slapped the table hard enough to make mugs jump. "I want to see this. Ronan Kerr, scowling behind a bar. A terrifying innkeeper. People will pay extra just to be yelled at."
Tamsin's eyes flicked toward the tavern door, then back. "You're leaving Greyhaven for this?"
Ronan nodded once. "I took a posting."
Ysolde's brows lifted. "Already?"
"Found one through the guild," Ronan said. "Mostly because I didn't want to buy a building and bleed coin into it."
Pike whistled. "A posting. Where?"
Ronan hesitated half a heartbeat, then said it. "Gullwatch."
Brann's face lit up with recognition. "Frontier village."
"Saltwind March coastline," Ronan confirmed.
Tamsin's expression turned even more guarded. "Dangerous routes."
"Plenty of routes," Ronan said. "And plenty of trouble."
Ysolde set her mug down, eyes sharp. "What kind of trouble?"
Ronan exhaled. "Widow-run inn. Debt. Husband died three years ago. She's been holding it alone."
The words settled over the table. Even Brann's grin dulled slightly.
Pike grimaced. "That's not trouble. That's a slow drowning."
Brann grunted. "You're going to pull her out."
Ronan didn't claim heroism. "I'm going to see what I can do."
Brann's mouth curled back into a grin anyway. "If you go poking around the nearby dungeon, you send word. I'll come by."
Tamsin lifted one brow. "You'll come by for the dungeon."
Brann shrugged unapologetically. "I'll come by for the food too. If he's running the kitchen, I want to see how bad it gets."
Ronan snorted. "I'll poison you first."
"You couldn't," Brann said with absolute confidence. "You'd feel guilty."
Their laughter was rough, half relief and half defiance.
The night rolled on. Mugs emptied, refilled. Pike got louder. Brann got more sentimental. Tamsin stayed sharp until the third drink softened her shoulders by a fraction.
Ysolde drank like she was medically testing alcohol's ability to kill regret.
Ronan found himself watching his friends like a man memorizing a landscape before a storm. He'd spent years with them in tunnels and blood and screaming. Sitting at a tavern table with a fire at his back felt… unreal.
Then the tavern door opened, and the room seemed to tilt.
Tessa stepped inside.
She didn't wear her clerk sash. No quill behind her ear. Just a plain dark coat, hair braided down her back, boots that looked like she'd kicked a few men in them and never apologized.
She paused just long enough to scan the room—eyes sharp, chin high—then walked toward their table like she belonged there.
Conversation around them stuttered. Heads turned. A few men straightened, hopeful like dogs hearing a whistle.
Tessa ignored all of them.
Pike's mouth fell open. "No," he breathed. "No way."
Brann blinked, then let out a booming laugh. "Clerk's off the leash!"
Tamsin's eyes narrowed. Not hostile—assessing. "You came."
Tessa slid into the only open chair, expression flat as a blade. "I have legs," she said. "Sometimes I use them."
Ysolde stared at her like she'd spotted a rare monster. "Did the world end and no one told me?"
Tessa's eyes flicked to Ysolde. "You're alive. That means the world didn't end. Yet."
Ronan watched her, the way she held herself—practiced indifference, as if the entire tavern wasn't whispering why is she there? He could feel the surprise rippling through the room. Tessa was popular with adventurers in the way dangerous women always were. Men tried. She never gave them anything back.
And yet here she was.
At his table.
Her gaze landed on Ronan's mug. "You're drinking like someone who's leaving," she said.
Ronan's mouth twisted. "Maybe I am."
Tessa didn't smile. She just reached over, stole his mug, took a sip, and set it down again like she owned the conversation now.
Brann's grin widened. "Oh, this is good."
Pike looked between them, eyes glittering. "I knew it," he whispered, too loud.
Ronan kicked Pike lightly under the table. Pike yelped and pretended it didn't hurt.
Tessa's cheeks were faintly flushed—not from embarrassment. From the warmth and the alcohol she'd just stolen. She picked up her own mug (which had appeared as if by magic—someone at the bar had clearly rushed to send it over) and lifted it slightly toward Ronan.
"To not dying," she said curtly.
Ronan lifted his mug. "To not dying."
They drank.
The conversation loosened, then tightened again every time someone glanced at Tessa like they expected her to vanish. Brann told a story about Pike falling into a sludge pit and screaming like a choirboy. Pike protested. Tamsin corrected details with merciless precision. Ysolde laughed once and then looked annoyed that she'd done it.
Tessa didn't tell stories. She listened. Her gaze stayed on Ronan more than she probably meant it to.
Ronan felt it anyway.
He felt it in the way she refilled his mug when it got too low. In the way her knee brushed his under the table and didn't immediately move away. In the way she pretended not to look hurt whenever someone joked about him leaving.
Eventually, Ysolde's stubbornness ran out before her exhaustion did.
She slumped sideways, head landing on the table with a soft thud, eyes closed, braid slipping loose. A few seconds later, she was asleep, breathing slow and even, like her body had finally claimed what it was owed.
Brann stared at her, then laughed quietly. "Healer's down."
Tamsin stood, stretching. "We should get her back."
Pike was already on his feet, swaying slightly. "I can carry her."
Brann snorted. "You couldn't carry a bucket of water without complaining."
"I can carry—"
Brann scooped Ysolde up with one arm like she weighed nothing, draped her over his shoulder, and stood. "There. Problem solved."
Ysolde mumbled something in her sleep that sounded like a threat.
Brann grinned. "She'll murder me tomorrow."
Tamsin picked up her cloak. "Worth it."
Pike leaned toward Ronan, stage-whispering, "Don't do anything scandalous without telling us."
Ronan kicked him again, harder. Pike laughed and staggered away anyway.
Tamsin paused a moment, looking at Ronan with that steady, quiet gaze. "Be careful in Gullwatch," she said. "Not just with monsters."
Ronan understood what she meant. "I will."
Brann nodded once, serious for the briefest heartbeat. "Send word. If you need muscle—brain or otherwise—we'll come."
Then they were gone, Brann carrying sleeping Ysolde, Tamsin and Pike weaving out into the cold night.
The table felt too quiet after.
The tavern noise filled the gap, but it was distant, like Ronan and Tessa had slipped into a pocket of their own.
Tessa leaned back in her chair, eyes half-lidded, cheeks warm from drink. "They're loud," she muttered.
Ronan huffed. "They're alive."
Tessa's gaze flicked to him. "You're leaving," she said again, like repeating it might make it less sharp.
Ronan watched the candlelight reflect in her eyes. "I'm going to Gullwatch," he said softly. "I'll be back in Greyhaven sometimes."
Tessa made a small sound of disbelief. "Sometimes," she echoed. "That's what people say when they want you to stop looking at them like they're leaving forever."
Ronan didn't answer immediately. He didn't trust his mouth.
Tessa's head tipped sideways, and she looked suddenly very tired beneath the ice. "Walk me home," she said, as if it were an order. Then, quieter, "I don't feel like dealing with idiots tonight."
Ronan stood. "Okay."
Outside, Greyhaven was cold and damp, lanterns glowing in puddles. The streets were quieter this late, though never empty. The city didn't sleep so much as it dozed with one eye open.
Tessa walked close enough that her shoulder brushed his. Halfway down the second street, her steps started to wobble, and she made an irritated noise.
"I'm fine," she snapped at nothing.
Ronan didn't tease her. He just slowed, letting her match his pace.
By the time they reached her small rented house—a narrow stone place tucked behind a bakery—Tessa was leaning against him openly, her head resting on his shoulder like she'd finally stopped fighting gravity.
"You smell like tavern," she murmured.
"You smell like stolen ale," Ronan replied.
Tessa huffed a laugh, then fumbled with her key, missing the lock twice.
Ronan gently took the key from her fingers. "Let me."
She muttered, "I could've done it."
"I know," Ronan said, and unlocked the door anyway.
Inside, her house was neat in the way a busy person's home was neat: everything had a place because if it didn't, chaos would win. A small table. A coat rack. A kettle on the hearth. Papers stacked on a shelf like even here she couldn't fully escape work.
Tessa kicked off one boot, then the other, and stood swaying slightly in the entryway. She stared at Ronan as if he'd become a puzzle.
Ronan hesitated. "You want water?"
"I want you to stop being… reasonable," she muttered.
Ronan blinked. "What?"
Tessa took a step closer. Her eyes were bright and a little glassy, but her gaze was locked—focused in a way that had nothing to do with alcohol.
"You thanked me," she said, voice rough. "At the counter. Like you were saying goodbye."
Ronan's throat tightened. "I wasn't—"
"Yes, you were," Tessa snapped, then her expression cracked, just slightly. "I hate goodbyes."
Ronan didn't move. He let her have the space to say what she needed.
Tessa's hand rose, hesitant, and then she grabbed the front of his coat like she was anchoring herself.
Her voice dropped. "I like you," she said, blunt as a knife. "I have for a long time."
Ronan's breath caught, and he felt the words hit him right under the ribs—harder than any punch.
"Tessa—" he started.
"Don't," she warned, eyes flashing. "Don't give me a speech. Don't give me the veteran look. Don't tell me it's complicated."
Ronan swallowed. "It is complicated."
Tessa's grip tightened. "I know. I don't care."
Then she rose on her toes and kissed him.
It wasn't gentle.
It wasn't practiced.
Tessa rose on her toes and kissed him.
It wasn't careful. It wasn't hesitant. It was blunt, heated, and immediate—like she'd finally decided that if he was going to leave, she was going to mark him first.
Warm lips, a sharp inhale, the bite of ale on her breath. Her fingers clenched his coat like she was daring him to step away.
Ronan's heartbeat hit hard.
For a half-second, he went still—not from rejection, but from the shock of how long she must've carried this in silence.
Then he moved.
His hand slid to her waist, firm enough to steady her, close enough to make it honest, and he kissed her back—slow at first, testing, then deeper when she made a small sound against his mouth like she'd been waiting for him to choose her.
Tessa's grip tightened. She pressed closer, stubborn even in her softness, as if she'd decided she was done being the one who watched men walk away.
She broke the kiss just long enough to breathe, eyes bright and furious at him for making her feel this much.
"Don't you dare say something stupid," she whispered.
Ronan's voice came out rough. "I wasn't going to."
He kissed her again, and this time there was no hesitation at all—only warmth, pressure, the quiet hunger of two people who'd spent too long pretending they didn't want.
Tessa's back hit the wall lightly. Her hands slid up into his hair, tugging like she was punishing him for every night he'd come back injured and pretended it didn't matter.
Ronan pulled back just enough to look at her—cheeks flushed, mouth swollen, eyes shining in the low light.
"I like you," she repeated, stubborn even now, like she needed him to hear it twice.
Ronan's thumb brushed her cheek, slow and deliberate. "I know," he said, and the way he said it wasn't smug—it was intimate, like a confession he'd been avoiding.
Tessa swallowed. "Then… stay."
It wasn't a plea. It was an order that sounded like fear.
Ronan's gaze dropped to her lips again. "Tonight," he said quietly.
Tessa's breath hitched. She nodded once, sharp.
Ronan reached behind him, closed the door with his heel, and the lock clicked—small, final, loud in the quiet house.
Tessa didn't look away. "My room," she said.
Ronan didn't answer with words.
He answered by kissing her again as he guided her deeper into the house, the city's noise fading behind stone, tomorrow pushed back by the heat of right now.