Meet Jeremy at the bar to properly celebrate your 21st birthday.

“Rejoice, O young man, in thy youth; and let thy heart cheer thee in the days of thy youth... but know thou, that for all these things God will bring thee into judgment.”

--Ecclesiastes 11:9

Shangri-La is packed wall to wall. Music pounding and people shouting to be heard over it. The kind of night where the bartenders stop checking IDs halfway through the second shift, the floor is sticky and no one gives it a second thought.

Jeremy sneaks up behind you and slaps your back hard enough to rattle something loose. “Happy birthday, you dumb bitch.”

He immediately hands you a shot. You take a small sip. It tastes like citrus and burnt cotton candy. You don't bother asking what it it's called.

Your best friend of three years grabs ahold of you and starts spinning you around while chanting "BIRTHDAY! BIRTHDAY!" and for some reason, half the bar joins him in on it. You try to down your drink to avoid the embarrassment but it just makes it worse, as you get another drink shoved into your hand immediately to loud cheers from the crowd.

“Tonight,” he says, pointing a triumphant finger skyward, “we erase your liver’s innocence.”

You snort. “My liver hasn’t been innocent since high school.”

“It's different.” he counters. “Tonight we drink with the Allfather’s permission.”

“That’s the plan?”

“That’s the prophecy, my friend.”

You laugh, and for a second it feels good to forget everything else. Here, you’re just another fresh faced 21-year-old with terrible judgment.

You have to admit Jeremy's dedication to the bit was more than you anticipated. Before long, you end up near the bar trying to get something with a mixer in it, as his one-man war on your liver is starting to get a little too strategic.

That’s when she slides in beside you.

Not in a flirty way. Just... there. Same space, same mission: Acquire ****.

She’s wearing a denim jacket over a faded UT Austin tee, a look that says she didn’t come here to impress anyone. The kind of air that says don’t bother me unless you’re funny, and the patience of someone who knows she won’t be waiting long.

You glance sideways. She glances back and smirks.

“Wow,” she says. “Nice bit. Does that work?”

“What bit? I don't have a bit.”

“The basketball sized sticker on your back that says "KISS ME, I'M OLD ENOUGH TO DRINK NOW” says otherwise."

You're going to get Jeremy back for that later. But in the meantime, you produce your wallet and pull your ID out and hand it to her. She takes it, eyes it suspiciously, then whistles low.

“Huh. Ryan Gallagher. Minnesota. Well, happy birthday, Mr. Gallagher.”

“You read that like a cop.”

“I’m a Criminal Justice major,” she says, handing it back. “I like reading people.”

“And? What’s your read on me?”

“Undecided. But you’ve got honest eyebrows.”

“That's the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all year. Wait, there was the homeless lady that told me I have good bone structure. She was kind of cute, now that I think about it. Had all her teeth and everything. I'd have gotten her number but I wasn't sure she had one."

“Jesus, how low is your bar?”

“Somewhere under this floor. My wit's down there with it keeping it warm. Which is sad cause I just stumbled into a conversation with someone way out of my league and I could really use em right about now.”

She laughs. And it’s real. Light, surprised, like she wasn’t expecting it.

“I’m Alex,” she says, finally offering her hand.

You shake it. “Ryan. Still 21. Still committed to the bit.”

She stays by your side as the bartender finally notices you both. You get a whiskey sour. She gets a vodka soda. You clink glasses and sip. Your drink is mostly whiskey. Eh.

“Friends coming?” you ask.

“They’re late,” she says. “Always are.”

You nod. “You can hang with mine until they show up. Mine just made me take a shot called a ‘Gasoline Daddy.’ I don’t think it’s legal.”

“Sounds like college.”

You end up sliding into a booth together while Jeremy’s off in a heated debate with a girl about whether soup counts as a beverage. You talk about her program, your job, how you got into PI work, how you arrived in Austin with a duffel bag and little else. She asks questions like she means them and listens like she’s taking notes. You like it.

You glance back toward Jeremy just in time to see him holding up a spoon like it’s exhibit A.

You smile, but it's short-lived, as an unwelcome new presence dumps itself into the booth beside Alex.

“Heyyyy,” the man slurs, grinning at her like they’re old friends. “You—hic—you look like trouble.”

His breath hits you from across the table. Fermented regret and bottom-shelf tequila. His glassy eyes wobble between the two of you before settling on her, way too interested.

Alex stiffens. “I’m good, thanks.”

He leans in closer anyway, boxing her in. “Nah, nah, I saw you over here, laughin'... Figured you could use some company. A little attention from a _real _man.”

“I think you've had enough, bud. Maybe time to head home, yeah?” you say, keeping it even.

He doesn’t look at you, just waves a floppy hand in your direction like you’re background noise. Then he reaches across the table and grabs at Alex’s hand.

She yanks it back. “Don’t.”

He laughs. “Aw, come on. Don’t be a bit—”

Your hand snaps out and clamps shut on his wrist. It’s casual, clean. He tries to pull away, but you don't let go.

He frowns. Tries harder.

Nope.

“What the- let go, man!”

You smile. "Nah."

Then, predictably, he throws a punch. It’s slow. Wobbly. Telegraphed like a 90s anime wind-up.

You dodge it without leaving your seat, grip his sleeve as it slips past you and yank it forcefully to the ground, using his momentum to tip him sideways off the bench. He crashes to the floor in a heap. You stay seated and keep your grip on his wrist, pinning his arm against the tile.

He thrashes once, but he’s not going anywhere. The music’s still blaring. Nobody even notices for a few seconds.

Then the bouncers arrive.

They haul him up like he weighs nothing and drag him toward the door. He twists in their grip and screams over the crowd noise, spit flying: “YOU WANNA FIGHT ME? COME OUTSIDE, PUSSY. I’LL FUCK YOU UP, BIRTHDAY BITCH!”

You wave cheerfully. “Maybe after my drink.”

The door slams behind him.

You turn back to Alex, who’s watching you with raised eyebrows.

“You good?” you ask.

She nods, exhaling. “Jesus. Yeah. Thanks.”

You shrug. “He was just drunk. And dumb. And also drunk.”

“You really held him down the whole time without getting up.”

“I’m lazy,” you say. “Efficient **** only.”

She laughs again. It's light and airy. You’re starting to really like that laugh.

“Okay, Mr. Efficient. Where were we?”

“Something about how my eyebrows are criminally honest?”

“That was before you turned into some kind of a bar fight ninja.”

You smirk. “It’s a niche skillset.”

Jeremy slides back into the booth like nothing happened, but he’s grinning like he just watched a live episode of Cops. “So. You just going around enforcing bar law now?”

You raise an eyebrow. “He grabbed her.”

Jeremy nods, holding up his hands. “No notes. Just saying. Words before swords. Tomato cans bruise easy.”

Alex tilts her head. “Tomato can?”

Jeremy blinks. “Uh, Tomato can… just guys who aren't gym rats. Normies.”

“I’ll allow it,” Alex says, smirking. “You two fight crime on the side or something?”

“Nah,” Jeremy says. ““He and I box. At Lords. Big ugly warehouse gym with rusty fans and one guy who trains shirtless in jorts. Next to that giant coin operated laundromat that does all the billboards around town.”

She nods, satisfied. “Explains why you handled him like you were folding laundry.”

“Exactly,” you say. “Drunk idiot was basically a damp towel.”

Jeremy grins. “Except towels don’t usually scream ‘BIRTHDAY BITCH’ on their way out the door.”

"That's entirely your fault, by the way."

The night loosens again. Drinks refill. Someone in the corner starts singing off-key and gets applause anyway. The music dips into an early 30s throwback set. You land a whiskey sour that actually tastes like citrus instead of cleaning fluid. It’s a good stretch of time.

Alex leans in a little. “So, serious question. What’s the weirdest stakeout you’ve ever done?”

You sip your drink. Think. “I once spent three hours crammed into a gardening shed waiting to catch a cheating husband. Turned out he was just really into birds.”

“Like actual birds? Or is that last century PI slang for women?”

“Like he met up with other guys in the park to take pictures of rare finches. No affair, just nerdy bird stuff. I felt kind of bad ruining the surprise birthday slideshow he was making.”

Alex laughs so hard she snorts.

You all laugh again. The vibe is solid. Jeremy’s soup girl drifts over and slides into the booth next to him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She tosses a crumpled napkin at his face.

“Soup’s a beverage,” she declares. “End of debate.”

Jeremy protests. She shuts him down with a smirk and a fresh drink. They're off in their own orbit now. Laughing, arguing, maybe flirting. Hard to say.

You and Alex trade a look. One of those quiet, amused ones that says: well, that’s a whole thing happening over there.

Another round appears. You don’t remember ordering it.

Time folds itself for a bit. Could be twenty minutes. Could be an hour. The music changes three times. Jeremy ends up with someone’s sunglasses on. Alex gets her drink stolen by Soup-Beverage Girl. At some point you end up talking about your community college classes and the ethics of surveillance.

It’s a good night.

Someone waves at Alex excitedly from the bar. She frowns.

“My friends are here. Took them long enough.”

You nod, trying not to let the disappointment show.

She slides out of the booth and pulls something out of her jacket. A square of paper. Real paper. Folded in half. She writes something on it with a tiny pen from her keychain, then slides it across the table to you.

“My number. Don’t lose it. That’s vintage pulp.”

You grin, tucking it into your wallet like it’s a hundred dollar bill. “Got it. Protected by multiple layers of synthetic leather.”

She smiles. Then, unexpectedly, leans in and kisses your cheek. Warm. Quick. Just long enough to linger.

“Happy birthday, Ryan.”

And then she’s gone. Swallowed up into the crowd with a wave over her shoulder.

Jeremy watches her go, mouth half-open. “Dude.”

You just grin. Still feeling the warmth on your cheek.

“Birthday magic,” you say.

Jeremy claps your shoulder. “Alright. Time for more drinks before you wake up and realize this was all a dream.”