Fiona steps into the dimly lit bar, the weight of the day pressing down on her. She scans the room, looking for something—anything—to take the edge off. The low hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses, the smell of booze mixed with stale cigarettes—it’s all strangely comforting, like an old song she’s heard a thousand times. She makes her way to the bar and catches your eye. You don’t need to ask; you can see it all over her face. The exhaustion, the need to shut everything out for a little while.

"Whiskey. Neat," she says, voice rough, like she hasn’t spoken in hours. You nod, pouring the amber liquid. When you slide the glass to her, your eyes meet for just a second—long enough for her to know you get it. She takes a sip, letting the warmth settle in, dulling the sharp edges of her thoughts. For the first time all day, she exhales.

"Thanks," she murmurs, looking up at you again.