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My immediate thought is that it looks just like a fantasy tavern.

Several dark wooden picnic tables stretch out along the middle of the floor, while smaller tables and rocking chairs are set up to create cozy reading nooks, a gaming setup, and perfect little corners for dates.

Large kegs sit in clusters along the walls, and everything is lit by soft yellow lights hanging from the rafters above.

To our left is a dark green wall with a few scattered posters pinned up and an electric fireplace burning merrily in the middle.

It’s far too early in the year for a fire, and their AC must be working double-time to counteract it, but damn does it set the mood.

Already I have the itch to settle in at a corner table and sketch the whole scene out.

To our right is the bar itself, manned by Noah and a bald man with an unfortunately long blond mustache.

He sports a beanie and a black shirt with the brewery’s logo on the front: the same stylized “A” but stuffed into a bubbling conical potion bottle.

It’s an excellent logo. Both my marketing and my artistic sensibilities agree.

Noah is wearing a black-and-red flannel— how many does he have?

—rolled up to his elbows, and he’s tied half of his hair into a little knot on the back of his head.

He’s already wearing a customer-service-friendly smile when we walk in, but as soon as he recognizes us, his expression brightens into something warmer.

“Sadie, Liam!” He circles around the bar and tugs Liam into a friendly side hug before turning to face me, arms outstretched in that universal Are you a hugger?

invitation. Totally game, I welcome the embrace, and Noah bends to fold me into his chest. The height difference between us is comedic and undeniably cozy.

He smells like beer and the outdoors, and his beard tickles my forehead.

“You came,” he says cheerily, gesturing for us to sit on the barstools. “What can I get for you two?”

Liam points to one of the stouts on the brewery’s menu. “I’ll have the Flask of Storms again.”

I glance through the draft list, marveling at the names of the different beers—Elixir of Love, Firebreathing Potion, Brew of Poisons, Draught of Demons—and laugh a little under my breath.

Within seconds I know what I want, but I can’t help myself.

I turn my most charming smile onto Noah. “What do you recommend?”

He leans forward on the bar, perching on his forearms. “I’m so glad you asked.”

He launches into a series of pitches for every drink on the menu, and after a good bit of back-and-forth, it’s obvious that he’s great at his job—or at least that he knows a lot about beer.

What am I in the mood for? Something dark and heavy?

An IPA? No, absolutely not. Okay, so something summery, right?

Light and breezy, something I could crush while lounging on the beach?

Maybe. We’re getting closer. He doesn’t want to assume that all women go for fruity drinks, but he has to ask…

do I like fruity drinks? My sheepish grin is enough of an answer.

What about something a little tart, with a burst of flavor at the end?

Perfect.

“Sunshine Spirits,” he declares, naming the sour I knew I was going to order all along.

“You should start there.” Noah fills a glass for me—it’s charming, shaped like a wider-mouthed version of the logo’s beaker—and slides it in my direction.

He leans forward and whispers, “And it is, as promised, on the house.” He flashes me a lopsided smile, and I try to ignore the way my face heats.

I clink my glass with Liam’s and raise the drink to my lips. As the name guarantees, it’s a bright, sunny sour, with tart notes of passion fruit and peaches. The bubbles settle alongside the butterflies in my stomach, and immediately some of the stress of this afternoon eases out of my shoulders.

Noah leans against the edge of the bar, his eyebrows perched expectantly high on his forehead.

“It’s good,” I say. “It’s really good.”

“I knew you’d like it.” His gaze slides past me and over my shoulder, and the carefree crookedness of his grin shifts into a more reserved customer-service expression as he welcomes in the newest patrons.

To Liam and me, he says, “Let me get them settled and then I’ll come hang, yeah? ” We nod and wave him away.

I turn back to Liam, who’s watching me with an infuriatingly sly, close-lipped smile. His eyes bounce to where Noah ran off to then pan slowly back to me. I can practically see the equations he’s running reflected in his glasses.

He takes a sip of his beer. “So—”

“Don’t.”

“Very well.” His eyes sparkle with mischief as he releases me from his searching gaze and eyes the other patrons curiously.

We used to frequent happy hours together, though it’s been a long time since we’ve done it with any sort of regularity.

The last time was during Christmas, when we were both in Connecticut.

Back in high school, we were annoyingly straitlaced, and the only times we ever drank were when we snuck some of his mom’s wine after his first breakup and my first college rejection.

We both ended up going to UConn, and in college…

well, we’d gone a little wild. In the way of sheltered nose-stuck-in-textbook academic kids, we’d frothed at the mouth at the first taste of freedom and tequila.

But we’ve grown up since then, and in the five years since we graduated with our bachelor’s, my move to New York has meant fewer opportunities for happy hours with Liam.

I went to plenty in New York, of course—with my loud co-workers, or on bad dates, or by myself on the worst days—but the ones with Liam were always the best. Now, instead of a virtual happy hour over FaceTime with us gossiping about the people we’d gone to high school with, him detailing his frustrations with his school administration, and me needling him about his recent dates, we finally get to have another one in person.

Speaking of.

“So the first time you came here was for a date?” I tease.

Liam exhales a laugh and self-consciously runs a hand through the sweep of his sandy-blond hair.

“It seemed like a safe bet. You know—the location was new to me, new to him…” A good strategy; it’s always a risk taking a first date to your favorite spot.

If it goes badly, it might mar the memory of your go-to haunt.

It makes me want to stay in town long enough to find out what Liam’s favorite spots are.

“And it went badly?”

“We didn’t have much in common. He only stayed for one drink.” Liam shrugs it off, unbothered.

“That seems rude.”

“I didn’t mind,” he says, and I wonder if he’s underselling it. I’ve always known Liam to be notoriously picky. “He didn’t want to waste my time.”

“And I was a much better conversation partner.” Noah slides back into his spot behind the bar.

I’d seen him out of the corner of my eye as he made his rounds, and though I pitched this outing in the hopes that he would hang out with us, I’m glad to see that the brewery is bustling enough to keep him busy.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” I say, drumming my purple nails on my glass.

I hadn’t cared enough to paint them in months, but I somehow found time to do it after my commission this afternoon.

“Liam’s hard to impress, Noah. How did you get from being a total stranger to securing an exclusive invitation to the D&D table? ”

Immediately Noah begins to unbutton his flannel.

I’m surprised, but I don’t complain.

He shrugs off the shirt, revealing a dark green Alchemist tee underneath.

I try not to let my eyes linger on the way the logo stretches over the wide expanse of his chest. Turning to the left, Noah braces his elbow on the bar top and rolls up his sleeve to show off a flexed arm, his biceps covered in ink.

It all makes sense now. I nod sagely and turn to Liam.

“You invited him for his muscles,” I say. “You wanted to challenge the insidious stereotype that jocks don’t play Dungeons & Dragons.”

Liam scoffs at the same moment that Noah barks out a laugh. I smile into my beer.

“No, Sadie, his tattoo. ”

I turn back to Noah and pretend to adjust my glasses for a closer inspection.

It’s gorgeous work. It depicts a warrior wielding a glaive like a walking staff, their face shrouded in the depths of their hood save for the glint of a smile.

A midnight cloak flows from their shoulders, and the artist did a wonderful job of inking out the dozens of intricate feathers covering the cape.

I tilt my head to the side, realizing that each feather is distinctly unique, like they all came from different birds.

Liam grins at seeing the tattoo again, but I don’t recognize the character.

“Who are they?”

“It’s the Wayfarer,” they answer at the same time.

“From Legends of Lore, ” Noah adds, for my benefit.

Liam looks disappointed at my ignorance, while Noah just looks happy to have the opportunity to explain.

“He’s not one of the main characters in the game,” he continues.

“There’s really only one questline with him, but everyone agrees that it’s one of the best. He’s almost impossible to find because he only spawns in the game every couple of weeks, and always in a different location.

When you talk to him, he tells you that he’s trying to cast a spell to find his way home, and the spell requires the feathers from a hundred different magical creatures. ”

I wince. A quest like that sounds tedious to me, but Noah’s bright blue eyes are lit with avid interest.

“As you help him gather more feathers, you learn more about him and his travels. When you hand off the last part of the quest, the phoenix feather, he just…flies away.”

I sip my drink. “Does he fly home?”