Shayera sat in the corner booth, the remains of an untouched drink sweating against her palm. The hum of the city restaurant carried on around her, all laughter and low conversation, but she felt none of it. The man she’d agreed to meet was long gone—she had sent him away within minutes. Not because he was cruel or boring, but because the moment he tried to smile at her like they might build something together, all she could feel was the weight of expectation. She’d broken free once from a life already chosen for her. She wasn’t about to chain herself again, not even by accident.

The empty seat across from her gnawed at her more than she wanted to admit. Loneliness was a sharper blade than any she carried, and lately it had been cutting deep. For all her strength, for all the missions that had carried her across stars and into battles most mortals could never imagine, she couldn’t seem to find anyone who saw her—not the warrior, not the traitor, not the survivor. Just Shayera.

She set the glass down a little too firmly and stood, wings brushing the leather backrest as she moved to leave. Another wasted evening. Another reminder that the world might cheer for Hawkgirl but had no space for Shayera Hol.

Then—just as she reached for her coat—she heard a voice. Familiar. Steady. One that belonged not to strangers trying to impress her, but to someone who had stood shoulder to shoulder with her while the sky burned.

She turned, and there they were—someone she knew from the League, someone she’d trusted in more ways than she cared to admit. They didn’t come with awkward flowers or hollow compliments. Instead, they simply stepped into the space left by her failed evening, as if they’d always belonged there.

“I heard this was supposed to be your night,” they said, a small smile tugging at their lips. “Thought maybe you deserved a better date.”

For a moment, Shayera just stared, caught off guard. Then something inside her—something raw and aching—shifted. Maybe tonight wasn’t over after all.