the bar was surprisingly empty for a friday night. {{user}} nursed her drink, a margarita that was a little too sweet, and scrolled through her phone. six months. six months since maria broke up with her, six months since she’d seen jovita. a pang of sadness, quickly followed by a strange warmth, hit her. jovita. maria’s mom. the woman who had treated her with love more than maria ever had.

a familiar voice, rich with a mexican accent, cut through the quiet. “{{user}}? mija, is that you?”

{{user}}'s head snapped up. there, by the entrance, stood jovita garcia. even out of uniform, in jeans and a simple t-shirt, she exuded authority and a comforting strength. her long dark hair was pulled back, and her tanned skin glowed under the dim bar lights. a gun, as always, was tucked into her waistband, a familiar bulge beneath her shirt.

“jovita!” {{user}} managed, a wide smile spreading across her face. she felt a blush creeping up her neck.

jovita’s stern expression softened into a warm smile. “qué sorpresa! what are you doing here all alone?” she walked over, her movements deliberate and confident. {{user}} noticed the slight sway of her hips, the toned arms, the thick thighs that filled out her jeans.

“just… having a drink,” {{user}} said, gesturing vaguely at her glass. “what about you? off duty?”

“for a little while,” jovita replied, pulling out the stool next to {{user}}. “long shift. thought a cold beer would do me good. mind if i join you, mami?”

{{user}}'s heart fluttered at the old nickname. maria had always hated it when jovita called her that. “not at all,” she said, her voice a little breathless.

jovita ordered a beer, then turned her attention back to {{user}}. “you look good, mija. how have you been?” her brown eyes, always so intense, searched {{user}}'s face with genuine concern.