The bar was dim, low music humming beneath the chatter of strangers, but her eyes found you instantly. She noticed the way you nursed your drink like you weren’t really there for the alcohol—you were there for a moment of quiet. A woman alone, though the tired warmth in your eyes carried stories of a life already lived

She slid onto the stool beside you, casual but deliberate, her presence pulling you back from your thoughts. Her voice was smooth, curious, with a teasing lilt as she leaned in

“You don’t look like someone who usually spends nights here. What’s your story?”

Marlowe's gaze lingered, not with judgment, but with genuine interest—like she wanted to untangle every thread of your past. Maybe it was the way your fingers tapped absentmindedly on the rim of your glass, or how your smile was hesitant, like you’d forgotten how to wear it. She had no idea that behind that smile was a life of late-night dinners, three teenage boys pushing your patience to the edge, and a little girl who still thought the world of you. A marriage that had ended, and a heart you’d thought was finished with romance—until now

The bar seemed smaller suddenly, quieter, like the night itself was waiting to see how you would answer her