Intemperance X - the Life We Choose
Copyright© 2026 by Al Steiner
Chapter 33: Something’s Happening Here
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 33: Something’s Happening Here - INTEMPERANCE X is the tenth and final novel in the main Intemperance series. As the band headlines its biggest moment yet, decades of music, loyalty, and hard-earned love converge on one unforgettable night—where everything they’ve built is tested in front of the world.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Consensual BiSexual Fiction
Las Vegas, Nevada
March 25, 2005
The first thing Owen registered was singing—not some particular person singing, just singing happening, like weather. Soft at first. Aimless. Then precise. Mm–mee–mah–moh–moo. Ba–da–ska–doo–bap. A fragment of Barracuda—just the climb, no lyrics—then a hard left into Take a Chance on Me, playful, bright, fearless. He didn’t open his eyes, because this was clearly a dream. His head still felt padded with cotton and static—beer-brain, weed-lag, the pleasant afterburn of a night that had gone very long and very right. Dreams did this sometimes. They handed you gifts. Especially when you’d earned them. The voice was perfect. Not loud. Not showy. Just ... right. Tuned like a bell you didn’t strike so much as notice. He smiled faintly, still drifting.
Then the dream did something dreams don’t usually bother with. It corrected itself. The pitch sharpened—not brighter, just more exact. The breath control was there. The tiny micro-adjustments that only happen when lungs and diaphragm are actually involved. This wasn’t imagination. This was physics.
Owen opened his eyes.
The room was dark—Bellagio-dark, blackout curtains doing their job with professional hostility. No strip glow. No Vegas neon bleed. Just the faint blue LED of the alarm clock on the nightstand and the Hello Kitty nightlight that Tif could not slumber without. 5:55 AM. Five minutes before the alarm. He turned his head.
Tif was lying beside him on her back, blanket pulled to her neck, hair spilled across the pillow, one arm flung above her head like she’d just finished a set and was waiting for applause. Her eyes were closed. She wasn’t singing to him. She was singing because she could. Scales. Syllables. A perfect, mischievous ooh that turned into a laugh without breaking pitch.
“It’s so beautiful,” he whispered.
She opened one eye, saw him staring, and grinned. “Morning, Cutie Patootie.”
“You’re ... singing.”
“I know.” She did another scale, soft and liquid, like she was testing silk. “I woke up and it was just ... there.”
He pushed himself up on one elbow, the sheet sliding down his chest. It slid down on Tif’s side as well. They were both naked. Completely. The room smelled like sex—sweat, skin, something sweet and unmistakably Tif. The kind of smell that didn’t need memory to explain it. The kind that proved things had happened. A lot of things. She’d been insatiable when they got back from the fountains. Creative. Inventive. At one point he was pretty sure she’d invented a position that required three joints he didn’t know he had. The guys who wrote the Kama Sutra would’ve taken notes. Possibly invited her to join their committee.
“You know it’s early, right?” he said gently.
She nodded, still smiling. “I know. But listen.”
She sang again. Not loud. Just enough to exist. The sound filled the room anyway, like it didn’t need permission. Owen felt his chest tighten—not with nerves, not yet—but with awe.
“It’s ... really good,” he said.
“I know.” Not bragging. Just stating a fact. She rolled onto her side, facing him, her knee sliding over his thigh. “It’s always been good. I just didn’t know it was mine.”
The alarm clock glowed between them. 5:56 AM. Seven o’clock deadline staring him in the face. Charter bus to Indian Springs. TSF. One hundred and twenty thousand people. Six times Owen would be stepping onto a stage he didn’t belong on, carrying a guitar he couldn’t play, surrounded by men who could command oceans with sound.
The nervousness rose. Of course it did. It tried to muscle its way in, sharp and familiar—you don’t belong here, you’re going to fuck this up, they’re going to see you. He didn’t swat it away or joke or distract himself or reach for panic. He just stood there—mentally planted. He breathed.
He was a breaker. That was the job. That was the attitude. Not to be fearless, but to take the hit and not shatter. To be the guy who kept moving when the noise got too loud and the stakes got too high.
Tif hummed, soft now, curling closer to him. “You okay?”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
She kissed his shoulder, lazy and affectionate. “Good. Because today’s a big day.”
“Yeah,” he said, smiling despite himself. “It really is.”
Tif reached past him and flicked on the bedside lamp.
Warm light filled the room, soft and forgiving, and for a second Owen forgot what time it was, forgot the bus, forgot TSF, forgot everything except the fact that this woman—this ridiculously beautiful woman—was naked in his bed and singing at dawn like it was the most natural thing in the world. She was his. He was hers. He let himself look. Not in a hungry way, not even a possessive way. Just quiet disbelief. Like someone who still hadn’t processed winning the lottery.
“How’re you feeling?” he asked finally.
She stretched, utterly unselfconscious, breasts lifting, spine arching, then laughed softly. “Honestly? I don’t think I’ve ever felt better.” She tilted her head, considering. “Well. Except my cooter’s a little sore after the ravishing you gave her.”
He shuddered a little despite himself. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“It’s a good hurt, Cutie Patootie,” she said. “The best, really. I just need some water and maybe, like, one cup of coffee. That’s it.”
He nodded. “Yeah. I was drinking beer and smoking ganja. I’m gonna need lots of water, a few Motrin, and at least two cups of coffee.” He glanced toward the bathroom. “But first—a shower.”
Her eyes lit up immediately. “Oooh. Together?”
God, yes. Every cell in his body voted yes. But he looked at the clock again—5:58 now—and sighed. “I really want to. But if we do, we’re gonna miss breakfast before the bus boards, and then I’m gonna be a boo-bear all morning.”
She studied him for a beat, then smiled, impressed. “Okay, yeah. You’re right.” She slid out of bed and padded toward the bathroom. “No boo-bears today. I’ll go first. You can shower while I’m getting dressed.”
He watched her go, still a little stunned.
She glanced back over her shoulder. “You’re really smart, Cutie Patootie.”
He smiled to himself. “I try.”
He heard the shower kick on—pipes knocking once in complaint before settling into a steady rush—and stood, stretching with a quiet groan as his spine popped in a few places. That was when his bladder made its opinion unmistakably clear.
He padded into the bathroom just in time to see Tif sitting on the toilet, taking care of her morning business without the slightest hint of self-consciousness. She glanced up at him casually, like this was the most ordinary thing in the world. Which, for her, it was. She wasn’t modest about it at all. He’d seen her pee dozens of times by now and was even starting to get used to it.
Until Tif, he had never actually seen a female human being pee in his life. Not in person. Not even in porn. The fact still struck him as faintly astonishing.
He, on the other hand, was not nearly so sharing when it came to bodily functions. Tif had seen him pee exactly once—on a beach near Cabo San Lucas, after a jellyfish sting, when Coop had convinced him she was going to lose a leg if he didn’t act immediately. It had not occurred to him—or to anyone else—that peeing into a margarita cup and pouring it on her might have been a viable alternative.
Live and learn.
Tif finished up and wiped daintily and thoroughly despite the fact that she was about to step straight into the shower. Vaginal health and safety, Owen had learned, was something she took very seriously. And he was happy about that. She stood, flushed, kissed him lightly on the forehead, and slipped past him to clear the toilet room.
Owen stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and finally relieved himself, appreciating the brief, mundane privacy before the day officially began.
He brushed his teeth at the sink while Tif showered, mint cutting through the lingering taste of Tif’s vaginal juices. He laid out his towel automatically, habit more than thought, and was still spitting when the glass shower door opened.
Tif stepped out into the steam, water still running behind her. She didn’t shut it off. Just reached for her towel like this was how things were done.
“It’s nice and warm for you,” she told him with a smile.
He blinked. “Uh ... thanks.”
She seemed very proud of herself. “Teach told me last night—when we were tripping—that one of the keys to a successful relationship is leaving the shower on for your partner if you’re taking separate showers.”
He looked at her. “Did she really say that?”
“Yep.” She nodded, entirely serious. “Teach is so smart. She went to college, you know.”
“I’m aware,” he said.
“And you have to go to college to be a teacher,” she added. “At least that’s what Teach said.”
Owen rinsed his toothbrush and set it down. “Most people think that’s a good idea.”
She paused, towel pressed to her stomach, actually thinking about it. Then she nodded. “Yeah. You’re right. Isn’t it weird though that her nickname is ‘Teach’ and she just happened to once be a teacher? I mean, like what are the odds of that?”
“That’s pretty wild,” Owen told her.
She leaned in and kissed him lightly on the nose, then wandered over to start drying off, humming softly as she went. Owen stepped into the shower, appreciating immediately that suite showers in the Bellagio did not fuck around. Good water pressure. Endless heat. Hotel soap and shampoo that actually smelled like something expensive. Suites got the good shit.
The shower head was the bomb. It had spray that came from three different directions, allowing the streams to hit the entire body at once. And you could make them pulse, or go skinny and stingy spray, or just stay normal spray.
He washed methodically, letting the heat and the water and the soap do its work. He remembered the one genuinely useful piece of advice his father had ever given him—delivered when Owen had been maybe five years old, earnest and solemn as scripture: Be sure to clean your butt when you shower. He did. Thoroughly. Some wisdom sticks. Even if it did come from a man who’s future held a lifetime interment in Napa State Hospital.
When he shut the water off and stepped out, Tif was standing naked in front of the mirror, blow dryer roaring as she worked at her purple hair, concentrating with the seriousness of an artist at her craft. He dried off, opened his toiletry bag, and put on deodorant like a man who respected cause and effect.
Then he went back into the bedroom and got dressed. Jeans. His official KVA Studio Runner shirt. Clean. Familiar.
This was business.
Tif wandered back into the bedroom still naked, towel tossed aside somewhere behind her, steam clinging faintly to her skin. She moved with easy purpose, not performing, just existing in her body like it belonged to her—which it did. She reached for her clothes without ceremony and started getting dressed for the show.
Slinky black panties first, tugged on with a little shimmy. Then the leather miniskirt, snug and unapologetic. No bra—never a bra—followed by a half top in a deep teal that made her purple hair look electric instead of loud. Knee-length boots came last, unzipped and waiting, lined up neatly like she respected footwear even if she didn’t respect gravity.
Owen watched for a little longer than strictly necessary, then looked away before it tipped into gawking. He cleared his throat lightly. “Hey ... do you remember your little revelation last night?”
She paused with the top halfway over her head. “Mmm ... not really the revelation part.” She pulled it down and smoothed it into place. “But I do remember figuring out that singing ointment is just semen.” She said it plainly, like she was identifying a household item. “And that’s all it’s ever been. Just semen.”
He nodded, careful with his tone. “And ... how does that make you feel?”
She sat on the edge of the bed to pull on one boot, brow furrowed in concentration. “I mean ... I really want to believe that I only have to suck dicks when I feel like it.” She glanced up at him. “But it feels too easy. You know? Like when my mom tried to help that poor Nigerian prince get his money out of the country when he was decomposed.”
Owen blinked. “When he was what?”
“Decomposed,” she repeated patiently. “You know? When they kick you out of your kingdom and someone else takes over?”
“Ahhh, right,” Owen said with a nod. “Decomposed. It’s kind of like being deposed.”
“Like what Drew had to do in LA for the trial?” she asked.
“Uh ... yeah, kind of,” Owen said.
“Anyway,” Tif continued, “the guy at the bank told Mom it was a scam. Wouldn’t wire the money the prince said he needed to free up the fundus. And he was totally right. Shouldn’t that be illegal?”
“Yeah,” Owen said, wondering if he should correct ‘fundus’. He decided not to. Not while they were on a timeline. “It probably should be.”
She nodded, satisfied with that. Then she finished zipping the boot, stood, and looked at him—really looked at him now, eyes clear and curious instead of playful. “Did you know the whole time that semen wasn’t singing ointment?”
Owen didn’t answer right away.
For a split second, the thought flickered—you could lie. A small one. A clean one. The kind that smoothed things over and kept the morning moving. It would be easy. It would even sound reasonable.
And then he didn’t—because this wasn’t the first time he’d stood in this exact mental doorway.
The Kingsleys had all advised him on honesty within a relationship. Not all together, but three different times, one on one with each of them, spread out over months. Jake had said it first, blunt and practical, telling him that honesty was usually the right call in a relationship, unless there was a damn good reason it wasn’t. Laura had circled back to the same idea later, kinder about it, explaining that truth mattered, but timing and impact mattered too—and that sometimes protecting someone’s footing mattered more than clearing your conscience. Celia had been the last one to say it, calm and precise, pointing out that omission wasn’t the same thing as deception, and that relationships didn’t survive on moral purity so much as judgment.
The message had been consistent every time. Default to the truth. Lie only when you must. And don’t confuse restraint with dishonesty.
Owen exhaled and chose the truth he could live with.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I knew. I always knew it wasn’t really singing ointment.”
Tif absorbed that without flinching. “Then why didn’t you tell me?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I thought about it. The very first time you brought it up.” He gave a small, crooked smile. “But ... you were beautiful, and you wanted to suck my dick based on that premise, and no one had ever sucked my dick before, so ... I didn’t argue about it.”
She considered this for exactly one second.
“That’s fair,” she said.
Relief loosened something in his chest. He went on before he lost the nerve. “And then, as things went on ... I saw how strong your belief was. And that if you didn’t follow your ... semen schedule ... you actually had physical symptoms. And you were working as Celia’s backup singer on her new CD. I didn’t want to do anything that might mess with your head or hurt your career.”
In his own mind, Owen liked to believe that what he’d just said was at least half true. Maybe more. Possibly exactly half.
Tif smiled at him—warm, genuine, unguarded. “Thank you for caring about me that much,” she said. “And for letting me keep sucking your dick every Sunday, rain or shine.”
He snorted softly. “I was glad to help.”
She leaned in and kissed him, quick and affectionate, like the matter was settled for good.
Matt woke up smiling.
Not the groggy, suspicious kind of smile that came with hangovers and bad lighting, but the real thing—the kind that arrived before thought, before memory, before the day had a chance to argue with him. He felt refreshed. Better than he had in years, actually. Clear. Light. Like someone had reached into his skull overnight and quietly rearranged the furniture.
Kim was in bed with him, warm and solid and real, her leg thrown over his like she had every intention of keeping him right where he was. Jim had crashed on the pull-out in the main room—professional courtesy, mutual understanding, no awkwardness required. He had probably fucked her after the show they’d gone to together while everyone else was shrooming or minding. Cool shit. Jimbo deserved it. So did Kim.
As long as there was some gash for him when he got home, he didn’t have a jealous bone in his body when it came to Kim. And she felt the same. That’s what made their relationship so fuckin’ cool.
The night had ended well. Really well. The gash had been there when he got back to the room and it had been sublime under the lingering effects of the shrooms. The kind of sex you mentally write down in a fuckin journal and use as a benchmark for comparison later, whether you admit that to yourself or not. Matt had already filed it away under Best Sex With the Primary Gash With No Other Bitches Involved That Took Place in a Hotel Room, 2005—current leader, strong contender for category title when the 2006 Awards Ceremony was played out, but hell, there were still nine motherfuckin months left in the year.
The best part was what wasn’t there.
No headache. No pressure behind the eyes. No dull throb waiting to remind him of the last few days. And no hangover either, which almost felt suspicious until he remembered he hadn’t really been drinking when they got back. He’d wanted to stay where he was mentally. Present. Awake. Whatever that thing had been last night, he hadn’t wanted to muddy it.
His mind felt clean now. Not empty—just ... organized.
I’m part of a fuckin’ family.
The thought came fully formed, heavy and certain, like it had been waiting for him to wake up. Kim. Jim. Jake. Jake’s old ladies. GM and his old lady. The Nerdlys. Fuckin’ Coop. Even Freak Boy—yeah, Charlie too, whether he liked it or not. Family didn’t require approval. You didn’t get a vote.
Matt stared up at the ceiling, grinning to himself, heart humming along at a steady, satisfied pace. He felt like he’d cracked it. Like he’d stumbled onto the secret of Life, the Universe, and Everything, and it turned out not to be math or music or drugs or some cosmic joke written in code.
It was love.
Love. Who would have thought it was something so fuckin’ pussy as that?
Matt swung his legs over the side of the bed and pushed himself upright, the sheets sliding away with a soft hiss. The movement was enough to wake Kim. She blinked at him, then squinted at the clock.
“Six-thirteen?” she said. “What the fuck?”
He grinned. “Morning.”
She propped herself up on one elbow, genuinely stunned. “I have never—never—seen you wake up before the alarm on a workday. Not once. Not ever. Not in the entire time I’ve known you.”
He shrugged, reaching for his jeans. “My head’s clear. Didn’t drink after shrooming. It’s like ... clarity and shit.”
She stared at him for a moment, then snorted softly. “Maybe you should shroom more often.”
“Yeah,” he said, considering it. “Maybe I should.” He sat there a second longer, warming to the idea. “Hell, maybe we start Shroom Sundays when we get home. Like Jake and Teach’s Any Given Sunday thing with the ganja. Every Sunday—me and you, maybe Jimbo and Coop—go somewhere cool and shroom out. Joshua Tree. That bridge view place in San Diego. Hell, maybe even surfing on shrooms.” He lit up. “And I always wanted to try fuckin’ skydiving. Can you imagine? Skydiving on fuckin’ shrooms. You can’t top that shit.”
She made a face. “I’m gonna stay clear of the skydiving part.”
“I can dig that shit,” he said easily. “But the rest?”
“The rest sounds cool,” she admitted.
Matt stood and stretched, arms up over his head, joints cracking in a way that felt earned. He farted—loud, unashamed, unremarkable. Neither of them commented on it. He glanced at her, then back at the window, the Strip still muted behind heavy curtains.
“I realized some shit last night,” he said casually. “When I was shrooming. Looking at the fountains.”
Kim’s voice softened without her trying. “What kind of shit?”
He turned to face her. Didn’t make a big show of it. Didn’t brace. Just said it. “I fuckin’ love you.”
Her eyes got a little bigger. “You what?”
He snorted quietly at himself. “I fuckin’ love you. No shit. Always have apparently. Isn’t that some fuckin’ shit?”
She nodded once. “Yeah,” she said slowly. “It is some fuckin’ shit.”
But he saw it then—the way her eyes changed, the way her expression softened, just a fraction. No surprise. No panic. Just everything settling into place. And Matt smiled, peaceful, like a man who had finally said the thing he’d been carrying and didn’t need to carry it anymore.
Jake led the way into the café off the Bellagio lobby—the quiet one tucked away from foot traffic and noise, where the carpet was thicker, the lighting warmer, and the menus listed prices that no one in the room was actually paying. The numbers were there purely as a filtering mechanism—a polite way to keep the riffraff outside while the high rollers ate on the house without ever seeing a check.
White tablecloths. Real silverware. A prix fixe “Matin de Luxe” at $58 before beverages, which everyone at the tables ordered casually because it was comped by default. A “Brouillade aux Œufs Fermiers”—scrambled eggs with chives and delusions of grandeur—sat at $34, plus $9 for cheese, a charge clearly designed to discourage curiosity. An “Omelette Fine aux Trois Fromages” rang in at $39, toast inexplicably extra. Eggs Benedict de la Maison, balanced on artisanal brioche with a hollandaise that tasted like butter, lemon, and entitlement, came in at $46, or $64 if you swapped the ham for lobster, because anyone paying for this meal wasn’t paying for this meal. Pancakes hid under “Crêpes Américaines à la Vanille de Madagascar” for $29, served with a rationed thimble of maple syrup that had clearly been raised in captivity. Coffee was $11, orange juice $14, and the menu cheerfully suggested a $22 Petit Déjeuner Beverage Pairing—not because anyone would pay it, but because the price itself was the point. This wasn’t breakfast. It was a velvet rope with eggs on it, and every single person sitting down knew the numbers were there to scare off people who just thought it might be a cute place to eat.
The hostess greeted them with a professional smile that didn’t wobble or widen. No fan-girling. No unnecessary warmth. She knew exactly who they were, and she knew better than to make that anyone’s problem. “Good morning,” she said evenly. “Two members of your party have already secured a large table. If you’ll follow me.”
She led them past a few occupied tables, including one where Jake clocked familiar faces without breaking stride. Dexter Holland, Noodles, and Atom Willard sat together, coffees in hand, plates half-touched—members of The Offspring, killing time the same way everyone else was. Jake knew the bill as well as anyone: those guys were the act immediately before Intemperance, both nights. The last band to light the fuse, warm the crowd, and leave them loud and loose before the headliner took the stage. Jake approved. He liked how those kids played and conducted business. He gave them a nod. They nodded back. Dexter flashed him devil horns with a grin—easy, respectful, no fanboy energy in it at all. Jake returned it without thinking. That was it. No words. No ceremony. Just recognition between bands who knew the order of things, knew the job, and knew exactly why they were all staying at the same hotel eating artificially overpriced eggs at the same hour.
Their table was set farther back, large enough to sprawl without crowding. Owen and Tif were already seated, angled toward each other, sharing something quietly that had both of them smiling like they’d forgotten anyone else existed. They looked ... settled. Bright. Jake took that in as he slid into his chair.
He thought of Tif’s realization from the night before—that she didn’t actually have to suck a dick once a week unless she wanted to—and wondered if they’d made peace with it already. Or maybe she didn’t remember it at all. Was shrooming like drinking? Did you lose memory of events and revelations the way you lost time with booze? He honestly didn’t know. He’d never done them. The idea sat in his head, unresolved.
Laura was already leaning in, greeting the two of them, but when she reached Tif she didn’t stop at words. She pulled her into a long, full hug, the kind that didn’t check for witnesses or worry about time. Shroom sisters. They’d shared something that didn’t need to be explained and didn’t benefit from being analyzed. Jake watched it with quiet amusement and something like respect.
Celia slid into her seat beside him, already scanning the menu like she was planning a small but decisive campaign. Jake leaned back, letting the room settle around him, the low murmur of money and calm and confidence.
Maybe, he thought, watching Laura and Tif finally separate, I’ll try shrooms one of these Sundays. What’s the worst that could happen? Celia would certainly be down with being shroom minder. Unless she wanted to try it too. Then Yami could be shroom minder? But then who would watch Caydee and Kira and Cap?
Life was full of tough decisions.
Jake leaned back in his chair and tipped his chin at Owen. “You ready, GM?”
Owen snorted. “Define ready.” He took a breath, then shrugged. “Yeah, I’m nervous. One hundred and twenty thousand people is ... a lot of people.” He lifted his coffee like it might help. “I’m not backing down, though. I’m the guitar tech. I’ll never back down while I still have breath in my lungs. I just—if there’s a trick to being less nervous, I’m open to suggestions.”
Jake smiled like he’d been waiting for that. “Easy. Imagine everyone out there is naked.”
Laura didn’t even look up from her menu. “At the last TSF we played, a decent percentage of them actually were naked.”
Tif’s eyes lit up. “Wow,” she said, impressed. “You really can’t get sluttier than totally naked. I’ve never had the opportunity to go full-blown slut like that.”
“I don’t think today is a good day to start, Pookie Pookums,” Owen told her. “I’ll be backstage and you’ll be in the SVIP. No naked crowd surfing if I’m not there.”
“Well ... poop,” she said with a frown, using an expression she’d picked up from Mary Kingsley.
Owen then looked at Laura. “There are really naked people in the audience?” he asked.
“Hundreds,” she said. “It’s a thing at festivals, right, sweetie?”
“Right,” Jake said. “But they’re not totally naked. It is the desert. Most of them at least wear shoes.”
“I hope they wear lots of sunscreen too,” Laura added. “Like ... bottles of it. Especially the dudes. Burned nipples are one thing, but can you imagine what it would feel like to burn your little buddy?”
Owen shook his head, laughing despite himself, and felt the edge come off his chest just a little.
That was when Coop and Janelle showed up, sliding into the café like they belonged there—which, for today at least, they did. Janelle looked very cute in denim shorts and an old Intemperance: Never Say Never tour shirt, the kind that had earned its softness honestly. She looked excited in a way that was contagious.
Coop spotted the table and grinned. “There they are.”
Laura was on her feet immediately, pulling him into a hug. Tif followed right after, wrapping him up from the other side. Members of the shroom team.
“Damn,” Coop said when he got free, laughing. “You two act like we survived a war together.”
“Higher plane of existence,” Laura said cheerfully. “Counts more.”
Coop turned to Tif, squinting. “So. You still know that Owen’s singing ointment is as fake as the moon landing?”
She nodded without hesitation. “Yep. Still know. And I’m really happy I know.”
Coop’s grin widened. “Does that mean you’re never gonna suck his dick again?”
“Nope,” Tif said brightly. “Now I can do it whenever I want. Not just on Sundays.”
Owen turned a shade redder than his coffee. Jake laughed out loud. Laura just shook her head, smiling into her cup, and the table slid back into its easy rhythm—jokes overlapping, coffee cooling, nerves settling—everyone exactly where they were supposed to be.
The Nerdlys came in together a moment later, both of them glowing in that unmistakable way—eyes bright, faces soft—but also looking completely wrung out, like they’d stayed up too late having thoughts that wouldn’t shut up. Exhausted and illuminated at the same time.
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