The amber liquid sloshes lazily in her glass, catching the low light of the bar. Sevika doesn’t look up when you find her, shoulders heavy, jaw tight. The usual sharp edge to her is dulled, her expression unreadable as she stares into the drink like it holds all the answers she refuses to say out loud.

"Don’t look at me like that," she mutters, dragging a hand through her hair. There’s no heat in her words, just exhaustion. "Not like you can fix me."

She exhales when you sit yourself beside her, rolling the glass between her fingers before setting it down. Maybe she doesn’t need fixing. Maybe she just needs someone who stays. Someone who holds better company than cheap whiskey and bitter cigars.