Prologue:

November 1st, present day, Emma Flinter.

I hum a tune as I wipe down the counter of a bar that barely anyone touched today. Yesterday was Halloween and the bar was open all night with loud crowds and rowdy drinkers. But unsurprisingly, happy hour came and left hours ago to only two people. Everyone's either hungover, having sugar withdrawals from all the candy, or both. So November 1st is a quiet evening. There's only one customer here, Ray. A sixty-something year old man who lost his wife ten years ago and turned, as so many others do, to the quick comfort of alcohol. Even he's tired tonight; it shows in his old sad eyes. I check my watch and see the hands pointing to 11:00.

"Had enough Ray?" I ask, smiling at my regular.

He nods and I close up his tab.

"You want me to call a cab?"

Ray shakes his head. I offer every night to call a cab and he answers ever night the same way,

"Nahh, that's alright. I'll take a walk."

Ray walks out, nodding to Hank as he leaves. Hank is the bar security, he checks ID's before letting people in.

"Hey Hank," I call to him.

He pokes his head in from the doorway. He's huge, a burly bearded man who always manages to strike me a lumberjack.

"You closing up early tonight?" He asks.

"Soon, I don't think we're gonna get anyone else."

"Knock on wood," he chuckles.

Just as he utters the words, shouts ring from outside.

"Help!" Someone shouts. "Jesus, get ice!" Two men make their way towards the bar, carrying a third man between their shoulders.

Hank immediately blocks the entrance. "Get that shit out of here," he orders. "We're not getting our asses sued for someone dying on our watch."

I jump the bar and head over to the three men.

"It's alright Hank," I say, touching the guards arm. "I can patch him up."

Hank looks at me sternly and I pat him on the shoulder. "I'll owe you one."

His shoulders sag with a sigh.

"Can you help them get him up on the counter?" I ask. "I'll get the first aid kit."

While Hank and the two men haul the third man up onto the counter (that I had just finished cleaning), I run to the back, grabbing the first aid kit and some other things. Quickly, I rush back to the man currently bleeding out on the bar.

"What the hell happened?" I ask, wetting a rag to clean off the blood and get a good look at his injuries.

"He was in a fight."

"Does he know how?" I ask. "To fight?"

The injured man under me groans. "Sweetheart, you should see the other guy," he says with a raspy breath.

I look at one of his friends. "Hold him down, this is gonna hurt like hell."

I dunk one of the rags in rubbing alcohol and press is against the large gash on his forehead. Immediately, the man groans from the pain.

"Hold this," I order the other man. He holds the rag down on the cut and I set the man's broken nose with a cringe-worthy snap. Next I lift up his sweaty, bloody shirt to find bruises covering his sides.

"Christ, this was some fight huh?"

The one of the men grunts in response as the man on the counter begins to struggle. With the bloody out of his face, he can open his eyes and for the first time I really look at him. Aiden?

"Oh god," he groans. "I've died."

"You haven't died dip-shit," one of his friends says.

He stares at me and tries to sit up. "If she's here then I've died."

"Oh shit, I didn't even check for a concussion," I murmur.

"Let me go!" He shouts, struggling.

I place a hand on his chest and push him down lightly. "Relax Ace."

The other man looks at me, clearly confused. "How do you know his nickname?"

"I was his… we were friends in high school."

Underneath my hand, Aiden groans again. "Friends my ass. We were in love."

"Holy shit!" The first guy says. "Are you Emma? The Emma? We thought you weren't real!"

The words from his friend only encourage Aiden to struggle more. "Em? Em is it really you?" He asks, pain crossing his face as he struggles.

"If you don't stop, I'm going to have to knock you out."

He stills suddenly and breathes heavily. "Okay, okay."

I wave my hands at his friends, shooing them away.

I start inspecting his body more carefully. Once the blood's gone, it's really not so bad. He has bruises all over his torso, a bruise forming on his cheekbone, the broken nose (which I've fixed), and the huge cut. The cut is the worst of it, and the source of all the blood. I remove the rag and then quickly place it back on, making him cringe.

"Sorry," I whisper. "I've got to stitch it."

"It's fine. You got whiskey?"

I pull the bottle of whiskey off the shelf and hand it to him. He chugs a good quarter of the bottle and then hands it back to me, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"How'd you get this?" I ask, getting my stitching supplies ready. This wouldn't be the first time I've stitched someone up in this bar.

"Fight."

I point to the blood soaked rag on his forehead. "That didn't come from a fight."

"That came from the after-party."

My hand travels to all the bruises covering his torso. "These?"

"After-party."

I touch the forming bruise on his face.

"That came from the fight."

I snort a laugh. "It appears you party harder than anything else."

"No," he coughs. "The guy who I fought, he's part of a gang. I won and apparently they didn't like that."

I tense immediately.

"They crashed the party?"

"Yup. And then I crashed their faces."

I pull the rag off his forehead and start with the stitching.

"What did this?"

"One of them broke a beer bottle over my head."

"Yikes."

He stares up at me as I concentrate and after a minute I start to squirm.

"What?" I ask.

The corner of his mouth pulls up in a smirk. "Nothin'."

I roll my eyes. "You've always been trouble, five years later and nothing's changed."

"That's not true. I've grown up, you… You've really grown up."

I look at the man under me and see that same eighteen year old's smug smirk. "You haven't changed at all."

I stay concentrated on my task and stitch up his cut carefully.

"Since when did you become so medical?" He asks. "And what are you doing in the city? Why do you work at a bar?"

I keep my eyes trained on his forehead. "What's with the third degree?"

"You just said it yourself, I haven't seen you in five years."

"And apparently you haven't moved on."

"Oh baby, I tried. There are lots of women who could vouch for that."

"You always were a cocky asshole," I say, poking him with the needle.

He chuckles and it turns into a cough. Some part of me feels a painful squeeze and I swallow, trying to bury it. It's been five years. I've moved on... haven't I?

"More whiskey," he groans.

I stop working for a moment to hand him the bottle. He chugs four mouthfuls when I take it from him.

"I know it hurts, but lets not try death by alcohol poisoning tonight."

He nods his head slowly and I lean back in, trying to speed it up. Goddamn head injures never stop bleeding.

"Emma," he slurs.

"What?"

"I miss you."

"Aiden, You're drunk. Just close your eyes and let me finish this."

He shuts his eyes and nods his head. I spend the next two hours patching him up, making sure he's okay. He's out the whole time, half asleep, half drunk. Around 1:30 in the morning, his friends call a cab and take him home, wherever that is.