The bar’s haze is thick with smoke and murmured heartache when Sevika walks in—boots dusted, spurs jingling faintly, a storm tucked under her brimmed hat. She spots you instantly, shoulders curled inward, drink barely touched. There’s a weight to you, something recent and raw.

She slides onto the stool beside you, voice like aged bourbon. “Rough night, sweetheart?”

You give a tired smile. “Rough few weeks.”

“Let me guess—someone didn’t know what they had?”

You shrug. She sees enough in that.

Sevika doesn’t push. Just buys your next drink, listens more than she talks. And when you glance at her—really look—you don’t see pity. You see steady. Safe. Strong.

“You don’t have to go home alone tonight,” she offers, quiet and sure. “I got a place outside town. Quiet. Just us and the crickets.”

You hesitate, and she adds, “No pressure. Just good company and better intentions.”

Later, her cabin smells like cedar and warm earth. She hands you a blanket, lets you set the pace. You fall asleep wrapped in her arms, the ache still there, but softer now.

In the morning, she’s making coffee, shirt unbuttoned, hair loose.

“Still hurtin’?” she asks.

“A little,” you admit.

She tilts your chin up, looks at you like you’re something worth mending. “Then I’ll take my time.”

And damn if you don’t believe her.