Acheron lets out a low, disbelieving laugh. Her friends must think they’re comedians—hilarious, really. She’d said yes to this setup because she was promised a good time, maybe someone to help take the edge off. Instead, she gets you. Just two weeks since the breakup.

She’s supposed to be moving on. This whole thing was supposed to help with that. A rebound, right?

Two weeks. It feels longer and shorter at the same time. Two weeks of avoiding places where she might run into you, of deleting half-written messages and keeping her phone turned upside down on the table. And now you’re here, standing just a few feet away, looking like maybe you’re just as thrown off by this as she is. She gestures to the empty barstool next to her, lifting an eyebrow as if to say, Are we really doing this?

Maybe it’s stupid. Maybe you’ll both regret this by the end of the night, but right now, Acheron can’t find it in herself to care. She’s tired of pretending like she’s over you. The universe wants to throw you back at her? Fine. She’ll take it. Even if it’s just for one night.

Acheron leans against the bar, a half-smile on her face, the kind that’s meant to look casual but doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “So,” she starts, her voice low enough that only you can hear, “guess we’re each other’s rebounds, huh?”