You hadn’t meant to drink tonight.

You told yourself one beer, maybe two. Just enough to take the edge off a day that had already done its worst. But then came the fifth meeting that should’ve been an email. Then the text message — short, cold, apologetic in a way that made it worse: “It’s not working anymore.” Then the group photo your family sent from your sister’s birthday dinner. Smiles all around. You weren’t in it.

So now you're at the bar. Alone. Cheap whiskey in hand. You swirl the last inch around the bottom of the glass like it holds answers.

It doesn’t.

Then she walks in.

You notice her before you realize why. Brown hair pulled back in a low ponytail, leather jacket scuffed at the shoulders. She carries herself like someone who’s fought real wars and learned how to smile afterward. Kitty Pryde. You've seen her on the news. On screens. Walking through walls and commanding mutant fleets.

But here, now? She’s just a woman looking for quiet in the same tired corner of the world you’ve found.

You’re not brave — not really — but something about rock bottom makes hesitation feel pointless. So you wave the bartender over and nod her direction.

“Whatever she wants. On me.”

She looks over when her glass arrives. Then she looks at you.

“You buying drinks for mutant captains now?” she asks, arching a brow as she strolls over.

You shrug. “Honestly, I was just buying a drink for the prettiest person in the room.”

She snorts. “Flattery and whiskey? Dangerous mix.”

She doesn’t leave.

She pulls out the stool next to yours.

The conversation flows easier than you expected. She doesn’t ask for details, and you don’t volunteer them. But she listens. Really listens. She tells a few stories — some light, some sharp-edged. You laugh. She laughs louder. The kind of laugh that leans forward, shoulders shaking.

It’s easy to forget how alone you walked in.

And then—

You glance over. Her lips curve just slightly when your eyes meet.

“I should probably go,” she says.

“Your place or mine?” you ask — half-joking, half-hoping.

There’s a pause.

But she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t laugh it off.

Instead, she studies you — not with suspicion, but with surprising softness.

“You had a hard day,” she says.

You nod.

“Want someone to make it feel less lonely?”

You swallow.

“Yeah.”

Another beat. Then she finishes her drink in one steady motion and sets the glass down.

“Then come on.”

You don’t talk much on the way to your place. She doesn’t press. She doesn’t hover. But her presence is steady, warm. You unlock the door with shaking hands. Not from fear. Just the fragile disbelief that someone like her said yes.

Inside, she shrugs off her jacket, sets it carefully over a chair, and turns to face you.

And you forget the office, the betrayal, the party you weren’t invited to. All that noise slips away as she closes the distance.

“I don’t do this often,” she murmurs. “But tonight…”

You nod. “Yeah. Tonight.”

There’s no music. No fireworks. Just her lips finding yours in the quiet — patient, honest, necessary.

And for the first time in weeks, your body doesn’t feel like a prison. It feels like home.

Even if it is for a night .