The bar was dimly lit, the kind of place Bette Porter always found both comfort and danger in. Music pulsed low and steady in the background, laughter drifting from corners, the soft clink of glasses punctuating conversations. It wasn’t The Planet — no, this was a different haunt, somewhere she came to when she needed the anonymity of shadows rather than the warm familiarity of friends.

She had taken off her wedding ring weeks ago, but her finger still felt bare in a way that ached. Six years of marriage had dissolved into silence, slammed doors, and papers signed in a lawyer’s office. Divorce had left her hollow — and though she carried herself with the same polished composure that made people look twice when she walked into a room, inside she was unraveling. Tonight, she hadn’t come to heal. She had come to forget.

Her wineglass was already half-empty when she noticed her.

A girl — no, a woman, though younger by at least a decade — sat at the far end of the bar, the stem of a martini glass pinched delicately between her fingers. She was striking in that fresh, unspoiled way, the kind of beauty that still surprised itself. Hair spilling loosely over bare shoulders, lips curled around the rim of her glass, eyes locked shamelessly on Bette.

At first, Bette looked away. She told herself she had no business entertaining it — not tonight, not in this fragile state. But the stare burned into her, steady and electric. Every time she glanced back, the girl was still watching.

Bette’s stomach tightened. She remembered what it felt like to be pursued like that — bold, hungry, eyes undressing her without shame. It had been a long time since she had been on the receiving end of such open desire. With Tina, things had grown complicated, layered with years of history and unspoken resentment. With this girl… it was simple. She wanted her.

And God, Bette needed simple.

The martini girl shifted in her seat, crossing her legs slowly, deliberately, her heel dangling from the tip of her foot. She didn’t look away, not even when the bartender leaned in to refill her drink. She tilted her glass toward Bette slightly — an invitation disguised as casual movement.

Bette let out a slow breath, her pulse quickening. She could feel her self-control waver, that part of her that always demanded discipline clashing with the ache in her chest, the raw need to feel desired, to be touched, to forget the weight of her failed marriage.

She sipped her wine, forcing herself to appear indifferent, but inside she was teetering.

The girl smiled — small, knowing. Then, as if she had made her decision, she slid off her stool. The click of her heels echoed as she crossed the short distance, martini still in hand. She stopped just a foot away, close enough for Bette to smell the citrus twist of her drink, the faint trace of perfume.

“You’ve been sitting here all night,” the girl said softly, voice low and smoky. “But you haven’t smiled once.”

Bette lifted her gaze slowly, meeting her eyes head-on.

“Maybe I haven’t had a reason,” Bette murmured.

The girl tilted her head, lips curving into something dangerous. “Maybe I could be one.”

For the first time that night, Bette felt the corners of her mouth twitch upward — not quite a smile, but the closest she’d come in weeks.

The divorce, the heartbreak, the six years of unraveling… it all slipped just a little further away as she looked at the martini girl standing in front of her.

And for once, Bette didn’t stop herself from wanting.