Endurance

The neon sign of Shelly's Pub cast a blue glow across the empty street. Inside, the last stragglers were finishing their drinks, but Michael barely noticed them as he slid onto a barstool. His eyes were hollow, his shoulders hunched forward like he was carrying something heavy.

Shelly looked up from wiping down the bar, her purple hair falling across one eye. "Well, if it isn't pretty boy," she said, but the usual edge in her voice was softer tonight. "You look like shit."

"Thanks," Michael managed a weak smile. "Just what I needed to hear."

Shelly studied him for a moment, then poured two shots of whiskey. She slid one toward him and knocked back the other herself.

"Last call was twenty minutes ago," she said, glancing around at the nearly empty bar. Karen was collecting glasses from a table in the corner, her dark makeup stark against her pale skin. "But I think we can make an exception."

Michael downed the shot, welcoming the burn. "I didn't know where else to go."

Shelly's piercing blue eyes held his for a moment. She seemed to make a decision, then called across the room. "Hey, Karen! Can you close up? Michael and I need to talk."

Karen looked up, her eyes darting between them. A knowing smirk played at her black-painted lips. "Sure thing, boss."

Shelly grabbed a bottle from behind the bar and nodded toward the back stairs. "Come on."

Michael followed her up the narrow staircase to her apartment above the pub. He'd never been in Shelly's private space before. It was surprisingly cozy—thrift store furniture arranged with care, band posters framed on the walls, and a collection of oddities that seemed perfectly Shelly: vintage bottles, strange artwork, and a bookshelf overflowing with paperbacks.

"Sit," she commanded, gesturing to the worn leather couch. She poured two more drinks and handed him one before settling into an armchair across from him.

"So," she said, "are we going to talk about it, or are we just going to drink?"

Michael stared into his glass. "I keep thinking I'll wake up and it'll all have been some horrible dream."

"My sister's a piece of work," Shelly said, her voice tight. "I should have done more that night. At the club."

"Don't," Michael shook his head. "It wasn't your fault."

"I left," Shelly said, guilt edging into her voice. "I saw what was happening and I just... left."

"You tried to stop her. Becky told me."

Shelly took a long sip of her drink. "Not hard enough."

The silence between them felt heavy but not uncomfortable. Michael looked at Shelly—really looked at her. Behind the tough exterior and sarcastic remarks was someone who cared deeply, who felt things intensely.

"You know what's funny?" he said finally. "Through all of this—the engagement, the wedding planning, the... end of it all—you've been the one constant. The one person who's always been straight with me."

Shelly's eyes softened. "Yeah, well, someone had to keep you from being a complete idiot."

Michael laughed, surprising himself. It felt good, even if it was brief.

"I mean it, Shelly. I appreciate you being there. Not just now, but... always."

She looked away, uncomfortable with the sincerity. "Don't get all sappy on me, Lewis."

"Too late," he said, moving to sit beside her on the arm of her chair. "I'm in a sappy mood."

Shelly looked up at him, something vulnerable flickering across her face. "Michael..."

He wasn't sure who moved first. Maybe they both did. His hand found her cheek, thumb brushing against the soft skin. Her eyes, usually so sharp and guarded, were wide and uncertain.

"This is probably a bad idea," she whispered.

"Probably," he agreed, but neither of them pulled away.

When their lips met, it wasn't desperate or frantic. It was gentle, questioning. Shelly's hand came up to rest against his chest, not pushing him away but not pulling him closer either.

Then something shifted. The kiss deepened, and suddenly Shelly was standing, pressing against him, her fingers tangling in his hair. Michael's arms wrapped around her waist, drawing her closer as years of unspoken tension dissolved into heat and need.

"Are you sure?" he asked against her lips, giving her one last chance to stop this.

Shelly answered by pulling him toward her bedroom, her eyes never leaving his. "For once in your life, Michael Lewis, stop overthinking."

In the dim light of her room, they came together like two people finding shelter in a storm. Her tattoos told stories against her skin as he traced them with reverent fingers. She whispered his name like a secret she'd kept too long.

Afterward, they lay tangled in her sheets, the sounds of the city filtering through the window. Shelly's head rested on his chest; her purple hair splayed across his skin. Neither spoke for a long time, afraid to break whatever fragile thing had formed between them.

Finally, Shelly propped herself up on one elbow, studying his face. "This doesn't fix anything, you know."

"I know," Michael said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

Shelly nodded, understanding in her eyes.

Outside, the neon sign continued to glow, painting the night in shades of blue. Below them, the pub had fallen silent, but in Shelly's apartment, something new and unexpected had begun to take shape—not a solution or an answer, but perhaps the first step toward healing.