Brave With You

Tristan

You ever have one of those nights where the second you see someone, you know you’re done for?

That was me the minute I spotted Francie standing at Declan’s wrap party.

I wasn’t supposed to stay. I’d promised myself one drink, a quick congratulations to Dec, say hi to Val,then home. My body ached from a double stunt day—two ocean takes, one motorcycle sequence, and a tumble that still had my shoulder screaming. I smelled like saltwater, adrenaline, and exhaustion. I wanted a shower, not a crowd.

Then I saw her.

She didn’t belong to the chaos of that room. Red hair loose around her shoulders, freckles soft under the amber lights, standing in a green dress like she’d wandered in from a quieter planet. Everyone else shimmered, loud and hungry for attention. She was still. Centered. Grounded.

And that made her impossible to look away from.

She wasn’t working the room, wasn’t flashing smiles at producers or pretending to laugh at jokes that weren’t funny. She stood at the bar, fingers tracing the rim of a glass of ginger ale like she was counting seconds until she could leave. Out of place. Untouchable.

Then some drunk leaned too close. She didn’t flinch or snap. She handled him with this soft, polite smile and a one-line reply that sent him retreating faster than any bouncer could’ve managed. Her voice—low, warm, steady—carried more authority than volume.

That was it for me.

I crossed the room before my brain could remind me I was sweaty and wrecked and smelled like the Pacific.

“You look like you’d rather be anywhere else,” I said.

She blinked, startled, then gave me a small, secret smile. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only to someone who doesn’t belong either,” I said. And when she laughed, it hit me right in the chest—clean and unguarded.

She tilted her head like she was trying to place me. “You’re Declan’s friend. The stunt guy, right?”

“Among other things.” I extended a hand. “Tristan Newman.”

“Francie,” she said. Just Francie. No last name, no preamble. Like it was enough. And somehow, it was.

The bartender slid two tequila shots our way, calling them the house special. I figured we’d sip, trade polite laughs, maybe move on. But she lifted hers, tipped her chin, and downed it in one go—like it was communion.

Didn’t even blink.

I nearly choked trying to keep up.

“What?” she said, catching my stare, half-laughing.

“Nothing,” I said. “Didn’t know you drank like a champ.”

That was the first crack in my composure. The second came when she told me she grew up Catholic—no moderation, no hesitation. Said it dry, with a touch of humor, but there was something braver underneath. Something that made me want to know every hidden part of her.

Suddenly the whole room blurred. All the laughter, the noise, the posturing—it fell away until there was only her.

She told me about her third graders, about the boy who swore the only good reason to read was to learn about sharks. I told her about falling off a fake horse and dislocating my shoulder. She didn’t laugh at the pain—she asked if it still hurt.

She asked real questions. Not about money or fame. About me.

And I couldn’t stop watching her. The way she leaned in when she listened. The way her freckles caught the light like constellations. The way she laughed, quiet and sharp, like she didn’t know she was allowed to.

By the time she challenged me to a shot-off, my accent had gone full Boston, my words slurring around the edges. She laughed at every other sentence. Somewhere between shot four and five, she started telling me about her sister’s wedding—how her family wanted her “composed, elegant, respectable.”

And my drunk, reckless mouth said, “Marry me.”

Her eyebrows lifted, but she didn’t flinch.

Then she smiled. Slow. Brave. “Okay.”

We laughed until we were kissing in a corner booth, tequila and adrenaline humming in my veins. My heart was pounding like I’d jumped off a building without a harness.

Everyone thinks we ran to Vegas that night. We didn’t. We waited until morning. But the promise—the spark—happened right there.

Her tossing tequila back like holy water. Me drunk enough to mean it. Her brave enough to say yes.

I’d faced explosions, sharks, and twelve-story jumps.

But Francie Nolan? She was the scariest, best leap I ever took.

Francie

I hadn’t wanted to go. Ellie convinced me. Said it would be “good for me” to socialize before her wedding.

“Meet people,” she’d said. “You never know who you’ll run into.”

I should’ve stayed home.

At Declan’s wrap party, I hovered near the bar with my ginger ale, pretending not to feel like the world’s most out-of-place extra. Everyone sparkled—perfect hair, perfect teeth, perfect charm. I grade spelling tests on Friday nights. I didn’t belong in a room like that.

Then I noticed him.

He wasn’t posing or bragging or collecting glances like everyone else. He stood just outside the noise, curls messy, posture easy, eyes half-tired but kind. Something about him made the air shift.

When he walked toward me, I felt my pulse stumble. First thought: he’s handsome. Second: he looks real.

“You look like you’d rather be anywhere else,” he said.

I almost dropped my glass. The words weren’t mocking—they were an invitation.

I smiled before I could stop myself. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only to someone who doesn’t belong either.”

And that made me laugh. The kind of laugh that feels like exhaling after holding your breath too long.

“You’re Declan’s friend,” I said, piecing it together. “The stunt guy, right?”

He grinned. “Among other things. Tristan Newman.”

“Francie.”

He repeated it under his breath like he wanted to memorize it.

The bartender insisted on a tequila special. I figured I’d sip and escape in fifteen minutes. Instead, I downed it without thinking—muscle memory from too many Nolan family dinners where saying no meant weakness.

Tristan blinked, caught off guard. “Didn’t know you drank like a champ.”

I felt my face heat. “Force of habit.”

He laughed. And somehow, that laugh unclenched something inside me I hadn’t realized was tight.

We talked. About my students and his injuries, about fake horses and real sharks. His laugh was unfiltered, his eyes steady and unafraid to meet mine. He didn’t make me feel small for being ordinary.

By the fourth shot, my cheeks hurt from smiling.

When I told him about Ellie’s wedding—the dresses, the speeches, the pressure to be “the good daughter”—he looked at me, really looked, and said, “Marry me.”

Not as a joke. Not entirely serious either.

But I said yes.

Maybe because I wanted to know what it felt like to say yes to something that wasn’t planned or approved or expected.

We kissed in a booth with tequila still burning between us, and for the first time in years, I didn’t feel like a disappointment.

I felt alive.

Wanted.

Free.