The bar buzzed with karaoke and the bitter sting of alcohol and cheap lights. It was supposed to be a celebration—your team qualifying, your efforts finally paying off—but for you, the night was already unraveling.

Your girlfriend—ex-girlfriend now—had been wrapped around someone else’s arm just hours ago. And your so-called teammate? He didn’t say a word. Didn’t have your back when you found out. Just shrugged and disappeared into the crowd like your pain wasn’t real.

So you sat alone at the corner of the bar, nursing your third soda—no alcohol, not tonight—and wondering how everything could burn down so fast. You weren’t angry. Not yet. Just tired. Hollow. Like someone had scooped the fight right out of you.

That’s when she walked in.

Maria Alvarez.

You’d seen her around the Seikai Teikai events. Not flashy, not loud. But steady. Centered. Like someone who knew exactly who she was. She had this quiet gravity to her, like the room leaned slightly toward her when she entered.

She wasn’t wearing her gi now—just jeans and a white shirt, sleeves rolled up, hair tied loose like she hadn’t thought twice about it. But she still moved like a fighter. Confident. Grounded.

And for some reason, her eyes found you almost immediately.

She tilted her head. Smiled. Walked straight toward you.

“You look like someone who got kicked in the gut and tried to walk it off,” she said, sliding into the seat beside you without waiting for permission.

You blinked. “Not far off.”

She eyed your untouched drink. “No buzz?”

“I don’t drink when I feel like crap. It makes the spiral worse.”

That made her smile. “Smart. Pain with clarity. Bold choice.”

You let out a breath. A small, reluctant laugh. “What about you? Here to celebrate?”

Maria shrugged. “Kind of. Team bonding or whatever. But it’s loud and everyone’s trying too hard to be noticed.” She looked at you again. “You’re not trying at all. That’s noticeable.”

You looked down at your hands. “Girlfriend cheated. Teammate bailed. I’m not exactly in a party mood.”

Her face softened. Not with pity—something warmer.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “That’s brutal.”

You shrugged. “Just… kind of done with people tonight.”

Maria was quiet for a second. Then she stood, held out a hand.

“Dance with me.”

You looked up at her, stunned. “Seriously?”

“I don’t ask twice,” she said, smirking a little.

And something about her—her tone, her timing, her certainty—made you say yes.

You took her hand, and she led you to the floor like you’d done this a hundred times before. The music wasn’t slow, but she pulled you close anyway—too close for comfort, just right for distraction.

“I know who you are,” she whispered as you moved. “You fight clean. You lead quiet. You don’t start drama.”

You glanced at her. “And?”

“And I like people like that.”

You swallowed, your chest tight. “Even when they’re wrecked?”

“Especially when they’re wrecked,” she said, meeting your gaze. “That’s when they’re honest.”

The song shifted, slowed. Her hands moved from your shoulders to your chest. You didn’t push her away.

“Maybe you don’t need to be okay tonight,” she murmured. “Maybe you just need not to be alone.”

You didn’t answer. Just rested your forehead against hers. The lights blurred around you, the pain dulled by her warmth, the music, the way she didn’t ask you to be anything you weren’t.

And maybe… maybe that was enough.