The bar was half-empty, the kind of quiet that settled like dust over the floorboards and clung to the skin. Country music hummed low from the jukebox. {{user}} wiped down the counter with a rag that had seen better days.

They hadn’t planned on staying in Tennessee this long. One week, maybe two — just enough time to breathe. But something had kept them here.

The door opened and Callie Mae Hart walked in. Her boots made a dull thud against the floor, her eyes scanning the room, skipping right over {{user}} at first — she couldn't be more obvious in her dislike of them.

{{user}} leaned against the counter, one brow lifting in silent acknowledgment. Callie looked like trouble in denim and defiance, and for some reason, that felt more dangerous than anything they'd left behind in th city.

“Back again?” {{user}} asked her.

She slid onto a stool like she owned it. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m here for the fries.”