crashing quietly | c.l.

Cara's POV

She should've locked the door behind Charles.

Should've closed the register and kept her head down, mopped the floor in silence, maybe even opened a bottle of something stiff and avoided feelings entirely.

But of course, the boys didn't leave quietly.

Lando poked his head through the back door five minutes later, face already too cheerful.

"So, we talked," he said, voice gentle in a way that didn't match his usual chaos. "And we're sorry."

She didn't respond. Just stacked a few empty wine glasses into the rack.

"We didn't mean to crash your vibe," he added. "Well—I didn't. Pierre maybe did a little on purpose."

She glanced up. "Is this where you offer to fix it with tequila?"

"No," he said, stepping into the room. "This is where I offer to kidnap you."

Behind him, Carlos appeared, leaning on the frame. "We're going out. George invited us. There's a rooftop with music and questionable cocktails."

"Also," Lando added, "Charles is brooding too hard and we need to get him drunk before he turns into a French art film."

Cara raised an eyebrow. "Tempting."

"Come with us."

"I have to close."

"We'll help."

She blinked. "You've never closed a bar in your life."

Carlos shrugged. "First time for everything."

"Seriously," Lando said, coming around the bar, "just one night. No drama. No secrets. Just dancing. And probably bad decisions. You deserve that."

She hesitated.

"You can say no," Charles said softly, reappearing in the doorway. He looked calmer now. Like the storm had passed and left something softer behind.

She looked at all of them. Lando's pleading eyes. Carlos' chill nod. Charles, quiet but watching her like she was the last vote in some strange emotional democracy.

"...Fine," she muttered.

Cheers broke out like they'd won a game show.

⸻

They helped her close.

Lando dropped a wine glass—on purpose, she was sure. Carlos mopped like a retired janitor. Pierre tried to reorganize the bar and was exiled to chair stacking. Charles stayed back with her, wordless, but every once in a while, she'd catch him watching her like he was memorizing the moment.

By the time the lights were off and the door locked, the bar looked untouched. Like none of it had happened.

They walked her upstairs to her flat above the café so she could change.

"We'll wait," Lando promised, flopping dramatically on the stairwell.

She paused before going inside. "You guys are a lot."

"We're also persistent," Carlos added.

"And hot," Pierre said from the bottom step.

"Two out of three," she muttered, disappearing inside.

⸻

When she came back down—black top, boots, eyeliner sharpened to emotional warfare—Charles looked up like he wasn't expecting her to actually show.

"You look—"

"Careful," she warned.

He smiled.

Just a little.

Lando offered his arm. "Bestie privileges. Let's go."

She took it, surprising herself.

Pierre whistled low. "Soleil goes night mode."

"You keep flirting with me," she said, "and I'll start charging."

Carlos snorted.

Charles was quiet again. Walking just behind her as they made their way down the narrow streets toward the club, the sea air brushing against them like a secret.

At the door, Charles caught up.

"Hey."

She turned.

He looked awkward. For once, off-script.

"Can I—uh. Can I have your number?"

She tilted her head. "For... bar supply emergencies?"

He shrugged. "Or... friends."

She watched him. "Is that what we are?"

"I'd like to be," he said, voice quiet. Honest.

She took his phone. Typed it in. Handed it back.

"Don't drunk text me."

"No promises."

"Seriously. I will block you."

He grinned, and she hated that it made her want to smile back.

They walked into the music.

Not fixed.
Not figured out.
But maybe—finally—starting something.

//

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