The bar cleans up decent, smattered with balloons that hide the cobwebs and poorly-stuck streamers that are already decorating the floor.

He walks in holding Oli’s hand, and raises their arms like he's just won the light heavyweight championship - he’s just got back from marrying her so it's practically the same thing.

The space teems with their life here, the people they've collected like trinkets they've had too long to throw away now; his daughter, her father and he thinks, begrudgingly, that they'll always come back home. For a second he appreciates that he can call it that, before he gleans the impatient scowl Uriah wears, stark, even through the near-empty glass of whiskey hovering at his lips. 

He’s standing outside, on the deck that runs around the perimeter of the house that lives on the outskirts of Iowa — AirBnB’s the compromise between Minoo’s enthusiasm for car camping and Motel 7’s and his insistence on hotels with a three-star minimum. It’s an overcast day, chilly to the point where he can start to feel it in his bones, trying to eke the warmth from the dark green coffee mug that reads, ‘I moved to Iowa so I could Cedar Rapids’ in garish yellow block font. 

When he hears the slide of the balcony doors, he warms with anticipation. It’ll take nine days to reach California, and in three, small rituals have already started to take form: a hug from behind, her cheek smushed up against his spine, him, riffing on their future because he can and indulging in improvisation because every variation will always have her in it. ‘How about church wedding, beach honeymoon?’

Lou lowers his gaze and peruses the clipboard closest to him to afford the frazzled mother some modesty as she walks in, wind-swept and undone by a summer storm as she wrestles the door close. 

Her chihuahua’s dripping wet, raucous yaps made louder by his budding frustration of being caught in his leash while chasing his tail — Lou wants to ask her to make sure the door’s properly shut so it doesn’t swing open, but she doesn’t have the hands: Her baby, one, or maybe two (he doesn’t hang around enough babies to be sure), is holstered in her other arm. 

‘Who do we have here?’ Sawyer asks, in her Waffles voice. 

He looks fully now, as Sawyer crouches slightly to meet the baby at eye level; as she nods, pretending to understand his garble, as the baby holds out his hands and tugs on the curl that always manages to fall loose toward the end of each shift. He tells the time with it, excited whenever he sees the rogue curl because it means it’s close to closing and he likes the way it looks - she looks pretty and he thinks the baby knows so too. 

The mother melts into a picture of relief to be momentarily relieved of her baby, who coos happily when he’s allowed to cling to Sawyer's embrace. Lou smiles at that and looks a little while longer — the baby's so small in her arms and the feeling is heavy against his chest, a hand curling around his heart.