The bar was half-empty, low lights flickering against the haze of cheap beer and even cheaper music. You’d stopped in off the highway, just wanting to escape Storybrooke for a night—a break from the same faces, same gossip, same small-town weight.

You were halfway through your drink when she walked in. Emma Swan. Blonde hair, leather jacket, a confidence that came with a hint of exhaustion. You didn’t recognize her at first—not really. She looked like she belonged anywhere but your sleepy little town.

She sat a few stools down, ordered whiskey neat, and let out a quiet sigh that said it’s been a long week.

When the bartender stepped away, you glanced over. “Rough night?”

She smirked faintly. “Something like that. You?”

“Just needed a break,” you said. “Storybrooke gets small after a while.”

Her brows lifted. “Storybrooke? You’re from there?”

You nodded. “Yeah, you too?”

A slow grin spread across her face. “Well, what do you know. Guess we had to leave town to actually meet.”

You laughed, surprised by how easy it felt. “Small world.”

“Smaller town,” she countered, raising her glass in a toast. You clinked drinks, and just like that, the awkwardness faded.