Chapter 19: Cold Medicine

The tiny click of Rhea Maddox’s tongue vanished almost as soon as it appeared.

She knew exactly who Helena Baird was. Anyone who came to The Full Moon Lounge more than once learned the owner’s niece sooner or later, especially if that person tried to get too close to the handsome young bartender behind the counter.

Helena did not raise her voice. She did not glare. She did not make herself look territorial. She only sat beside Rhea with a cup of coffee in hand, calm enough that the correction sounded like a normal reminder about lounge policy.

That made it more irritating.

The bar stayed warm and low-lit around them. Music moved under the clink of glasses, and the remaining customers spoke in small pockets of conversation. Nothing in the room looked openly hostile, yet the space between the two women had tightened until even the quiet felt deliberate.

Behind the bar, Cyrus behaved as though none of it concerned him.

He stood with his sleeves rolled back, polishing a glass that had already been clean before he touched it. The towel moved over the rim with steady patience. A bartender with nothing to do could always find another glass to rescue from imaginary fingerprints.

Rhea lifted her cocktail and took another sip.

The drink was still good. The pale purple color looked harmless, but the fruit sweetness underneath carried enough alcohol to make the body loosen if someone let it. Rhea did not let it. She was more interested in the young man who had made it.

Helena, unfortunately, seemed interested in the same thing.

Rhea glanced toward the coffee cup. "You drink coffee this late?"

"Some people come here for alcohol," Helena said. "I come here because Malcolm keeps good beans behind the counter."

"How disciplined of you."

"It has its uses."

The answer was too mild to be called an insult and too clean to be innocent.

Rhea smiled into her drink instead of giving Helena the reaction she wanted.

Cyrus continued working with the same unbothered expression. If he felt both women watching him, he gave no sign of it. His lashes stayed low, his hands stayed steady, and the ring on his finger caught the bar light whenever he turned the glass.

Men who knew they were wanted usually became easier to read. Some leaned into attention. Some panicked under it. Some became proud enough to make fools of themselves.

Cyrus did none of those things.

He accepted compliments like order confirmations. He accepted tips like wages. He refused phone numbers without sounding rude. Desire passed over him the way heat passed over stone, noticeable only because he chose not to move.

Rhea found that more interesting than she wanted to admit.

For a while, neither woman pushed.

The remaining customers relaxed into the night. A woman near the front complained that her supervisor loved scheduling last-minute meetings. Her friend offered the patient noises of someone who had heard the story before. Two regulars argued about whether citrus made a drink taste summery or medicinal. Malcolm moved between tables with easy warmth, the kind of presence that made tired adults keep talking after their second glass.

At the bar, Rhea grew bored first.

"Cyrus," she said.

He lifted his attention from the glass. "Do you need me to adjust the drink?"

"The drink is lovely." Rhea rested her chin on one hand. "I was wondering about something."

Helena’s coffee cup paused near her mouth.

Cyrus set the glass aside and gave Rhea enough attention to count as polite.

Rhea let the pause stretch until a few nearby customers had room to listen. "Do you like women who drink?"

For an instant, the lounge seemed to notice the same question.

A woman at the end of the bar stopped stirring her ice. Someone at a nearby table lost the end of a sentence. The complaint near the front windows faded into a softer murmur. Alcohol and gossip made a reliable pair.

Helena kept her expression unchanged and returned to her coffee.

Cyrus looked at Rhea, then lowered his attention to the glass towel in his hand. The ring shifted against his finger, bright for one second under the hanging light.

"I do not dislike them," he said.

Rhea’s fingers tightened around the stem of her glass.

Cyrus seemed to reach into some blurred place no one else could enter. His expression softened by a small, careful amount, enough for the room to believe it and not enough to trap him inside the performance.

"In the pieces I still have, I think she liked alcohol too," he added. "I cannot be completely sure. Most of those memories are still unclear."

His mouth curved with a helpless-looking restraint.

The answer landed exactly where it needed to land.

A few customers looked away with the awkward sympathy people gave to grief they had accidentally touched. One woman’s expression changed so quickly that pity almost replaced attraction. Someone near the end of the bar murmured about how loyal he was.

Rhea’s annoyance rose sharp and clean beneath her ribs.

That invisible woman again.

The woman inside his missing memories had never appeared in the lounge, never ordered a drink, never sat across from him, and still managed to take up more space than anyone living. She lived in his ring, in his careful refusals, in every rumor about the lover he supposedly forgot everything except.

Rhea hated how useful that woman was.

She also respected the usefulness.

If a memory could keep other women away, then Rhea wanted to know how long it would last against someone who could touch his hand across the bar.

Helena did not comment on the answer. She only lowered her coffee and watched Cyrus work with a thoughtful quiet that made Rhea want to laugh. Helena’s attention was not as obvious as hers, but subtle did not mean innocent.

No one at the bar knew what Cyrus was actually thinking.

Rhea’s question had come far too late. If Cyrus told women at a cocktail lounge that he disliked drinkers, his tips would suffer. If he played tragic and faithful, the customers grew softer, spent longer, and left feeling as though they had witnessed something tender.

The fake amnesia story remained useful.

Useful enough that Cyrus almost admired it.

He was not lying about every part. The woman attached to the ring was unforgettable, just not in the way the customers imagined. A locked room was unforgettable too. So was a hand that could close around his choices until the air disappeared. So was a claim that refused to leave his finger.

If the customers wanted to call that romance, Cyrus did not need to correct their vocabulary.

The night moved on.

Glasses emptied one by one. Conversations loosened, then thinned. Customers paid their tabs, thanked Malcolm, and stepped back out into the Grayhaven night in pairs or alone. No one made an ugly scene, which Cyrus appreciated. Adults who drank should still be able to leave like adults.

Most of them managed it. 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝘦𝘸𝑒𝒷𝓃ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝒸ℴ𝘮

Rhea chose a more troublesome approach.

Helena left first, after finishing her coffee and reminding Cyrus not to stay on his feet too long if school had been rough. Malcolm stepped outside soon after to take a call. The lounge had nearly emptied by then, leaving Cyrus behind the bar with the final cleaning list, low music, and one woman folded over the counter.

Rhea lay with her cheek against her arm. Her hair spilled over one shoulder. Her empty glass sat close to her hand.

Cyrus studied her for a breath.

He had seen her drink more than this and walk out straight.

Tonight, she had collapsed after less.

That was convenient enough to deserve caution.

He set down the towel and nudged her arm lightly. "Rhea, can you hear me?"

A low sound came from her throat.

She lifted her head, revealing a warm flush across her face and a lazy shine in her eyes. "It’s you, Cyrus."

"Your ride needs to be called."

"Could you do that for me?" she asked, her voice loose and sweet. "I might order the wrong thing."

"Give me your phone, and I will call it."

She passed it to him with the screen already open. Cyrus took the phone by the edges and opened the car service app. The app let him set the pickup at the lounge without making him type her destination before a driver accepted, which was lucky because her address was none of his business.

When he handed the phone back, Rhea turned her cheek against her arm again and dragged one finger across the screen.

"Cyrus," she murmured.

"What is wrong now?"

"I think my phone is broken."

"It was working well enough to order the car."

"Then why can’t I find your number in it?"

Cyrus looked at her for several seconds.

Rhea looked back with the loose, unfocused sweetness of someone pretending badly enough that she wanted him to catch her.

He did not answer.

Fake drunkenness could still be real around the edges. A person could be tipsy and scheming at the same time. A person could lean too far on purpose and still make trouble if left alone. Cyrus had learned that proving a woman was acting often cost more effort than surviving the act.

A horn sounded outside before he had to choose a response.

The timing spared him.

Cyrus glanced toward the front door. "Your car is here. Can you stand on your own?"

"I can stand."

Rhea pushed herself upright, swayed once, and tipped directly toward him.

Cyrus moved before she could fall against his chest. He stepped back, caught her by the arm, and held her at enough distance to keep the contact practical. Rhea still leaned toward him, persistent in a way balance could not explain.

The smell of fruit, alcohol, and perfume gathered between them.

Cyrus exhaled slowly.

This was work. More specifically, this was the extra work hidden at the bottom of a generous tip.

He guided her around the bar and toward the entrance. Rhea cooperated just enough to keep moving and failed just enough to remain close. Her warmth came through the fabric between them, steady and noticeable.

Too warm, honestly.

Cyrus glanced down at her face. "Are you running a fever?"

Rhea laughed under her breath. "Are you worried about me?"

"I am worried about incident reports."

"That is not romantic at all."

"I am on the clock."

The driver waited outside with the hazard lights blinking. Cyrus opened the rear door and helped Rhea into the back seat. She sat, then caught his hand before he could pull away.

Her fingers curled around his.

For once, her act slipped in a way she had not planned.

Cyrus’s hand was cool from the inside out, colder than the evening air, colder than skin should have been after hours in a warm lounge. Rhea’s thumb brushed once over the side of his finger before he quietly freed himself from her grip.

"Give the driver your address," Cyrus said.

Rhea gave it in the same sweet, blurred voice.

After confirming the driver had heard her, Cyrus shut the door. Then he leaned slightly toward the open window, close enough for her to hear without inviting her hand back.

"Remember to take cold medicine when you get home."

Rhea blinked at him.

The confusion on her face looked real.

That was satisfying enough.

Cyrus tapped the roof lightly, stepped away from the curb, and let the car pull into the street.

Inside the back seat, the drunken softness around Rhea disappeared almost immediately.

She sat up, crossed one leg over the other, and watched The Full Moon Lounge shrink in the rear window. The driver glanced at her through the mirror for half a second.

Rhea shifted her attention to the mirror.

The driver straightened in his seat and put both hands properly on the wheel.

Rhea returned her attention to the window.

The touch of Cyrus’s hand lingered against her palm. His fingers had been cool in a way that should have felt unpleasant. Instead, the sensation had settled through the heat under her skin like a piece of ice dropped into wine.

She had expected him to fluster.

She had expected him to enjoy the contact, or at least tense like a man trying not to enjoy it.

Cyrus had only adjusted his hold, avoided every easy trap, and put her into the car like a bartender finishing a closing task.

That annoyed her.

It also made her smile.

The first man in a long time who truly caught her interest treated her little tricks as if he had seen the whole category before and found it tiring. He seemed neither frightened nor tempted, only tired of the whole category.

Interesting men were rare. Men who refused without becoming self-righteous were rarer.

Cyrus became more interesting each time he did not give her what she wanted.

Rhea turned her hand palm-up in her lap and remembered the cool touch again.

There was only one thing she still could not make sense of.

Why had he told her to take cold medicine?

Her health had always been excellent.