All Chapters of After Hours: Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

Chapter Thirty-One: Johnny – The WreckageJohnny’s POVThe house still smelled like her.Faint coconut from her shampoo. Skin and sweat and that warm, sweet scent that he hadn’t realized he’d memorized until now.Johnny sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, shirtless and silent. The morning light bled through the blinds in stripes, painting his skin with shadows that didn’t feel deep enough to hide the mess he was in.Alli was gone.She’d left before sunrise. Quiet. Decisive. Barefoot and bold and wrecking him without a sound.And now?He was drowning.He ran a hand over his face, trying to think, trying not to.Layla was pregnant.Pregnant.The word echoed in his skull like it belonged to someone else.She’d dropped that bomb two weeks ago. Smiling, eyes shining like she’d just announced a wedding, not dropped a weight on his chest he hadn’t recovered from since.“You should be happy,” she’d said.“It’s ours.”But it didn’t feel like his.It felt like a trap.Because deep

Chapter Thirty-Three: Alli – Friday Night GhostAlli’s POVThe old jukebox wheezed out a dusty country ballad as someone hollered for a shot of Jack, and Alli slammed the drawer shut behind the bar with more force than necessary.It was Friday night.Her first night back at the bar since him.And she felt like a goddamn ghost in her own body.The place was alive—sawdust on the floor, the scent of spilled beer and cheap cologne, the hum of boots tapping to the rhythm of old Merle Haggard. Neon signs flickered above the liquor shelves, and the walls were stained with years of smoke and stories nobody dared repeat in daylight.This wasn’t some polished place with servers and table numbers.This was a honky-tonk.You didn’t sit and wait to be taken care of.You got up, walked your ass to the bar, and hoped Alli noticed you waving before you hollered her name like a fool.“Alli, you alive over there?” Mads smirked, nudging her as she reached for the tequila bottle.“Barely,” she muttered,

Chapter Thirty-Five: Alli – Honky-Tonk SerenadeAlli’s POVShe hadn’t opened the note.Didn’t even get a chance.Because the second she’d tucked it into her back pocket, the bar had exploded with noise—orders flying, bottles clanking, regulars yelling over each other, the jukebox skipping mid-track like it always did when someone spilled beer near it.It was another typical Friday night at their beat-up little honky-tonk, and she didn’t have time to breathe, let alone feel.So she didn’t.She just moved.Fast.Efficient.Mechanical.Even when her fingers grazed the edge of that folded paper every time she reached for her bar rag.Even when her eyes flicked to the door every five seconds like she was waiting on something she’d already sworn she wouldn’t want.Johnny had left.Walked out without saying another word after she’d refused to open the letter. And a part of her had been relieved.Because it hurt too much to watch him stand there in front of her—blue eyes full of that raw, tor

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Alli – Drunk in LoveAlli’s POVJohnny didn’t leave.Oh, he tried.Tried to look cool, tried to lean in close with that whiskey-soaked charm and say just the right thing. His words were slick, sure—but his balance?Not so much.He slurred something about regret and loving her and singing, and it should’ve been the moment he stormed out dramatically again.But instead?His hand slipped from the edge of the bar.His eyes blinked slow.And then—like a damn scene out of a movie—he just… slumped forward.Face down. Arms out. Head resting on the sticky wood like he was trying to hug it.Alli stared in frozen horror.“Oh my God,” Mads said, running over. “Did he just—?”“Yep,” Alli muttered.“You’ve got to be kidding me.”“I wish I was.”The bar roared around them. Nobody noticed at first. To the average honky-tonk drunk, a guy passed out at the bar wasn’t anything unusual. But Alli knew better.This wasn’t just any guy.This was Johnny.The man who wrote her a letter s

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Johnny – The Morning AfterJohnny’s POVThe first thing he felt was the pain.His head pulsed like someone was slamming a hammer behind his eyes, and his tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth with the unforgiving texture of last night’s whiskey.He groaned, arm draped over his face, and slowly rolled onto his back.Leather.His couch.He was still in his jeans, his boots, and—Christ—he could taste karaoke regret in the back of his throat.He blinked slowly.Once.Twice.And it hit him.He’d sung to her.Oh hell.He sat up too fast and the room spun, but embarrassment sobered him quicker than black coffee ever could.The song.The love confession.The awful, off-key, drunken mess he’d made of himself.He dragged a hand down his face.What the hell had he been thinking?He wasn’t the guy who said stuff like that. He didn’t do grand gestures, or declarations, or damn near serenade the girl who hadn’t even texted him back.But last night?He’d done it all.He’d to