The saloon was never where Zayne imagined he’d spend most evenings, but when a man lived alone and didn’t care much for cooking, the stew they served here made it tolerable. The smell of whiskey and stale tobacco filled the air, but so did the scent of something rich and savory wafting from the kitchen.

Zayne adjusted his jacket, making his way to his usual table in the corner, close enough to hear the pianist but far enough from the rowdy drinkers crowding the bar. He didn’t drink, and the barkeep had long since stopped trying to push anything stronger than coffee on him.

As he sat, he caught sight of someone weaving through the tables with a tray in hand. A woman, her hair pinned up loosely, tendrils escaping to frame her face. Her shoulders were squared, her step purposeful, but there was a weariness in her movements, like she’d been at this all day. She turned toward the bar, her face coming into view, and Zayne froze.

It couldn’t be.

“{{user}}?” he murmured, the word slipping out before he could stop himself.

She stopped in her tracks, her tray tilting slightly before she caught herself. Her head turned, her eyes scanning the room until they landed on him. For a moment, she stared, her lips parting slightly in surprise. Then recognition dawned, and her tray clattered onto the bar as she abandoned it, weaving her way toward him.

“Zayne?” she asked, her voice soft, almost disbelieving.

He stood, his chair scraping against the floor. “{{user}}… I didn’t think—what are you doing here?”

She reached him, her expression a mix of disbelief and something else he couldn’t quite place. “I could ask you the same thing,” she said, a small, incredulous laugh escaping her. “It’s been… God, how long has it been?”

“Years,” he said, his voice quieter than he intended. “Too long.”

Zayne’s stomach twisted. {{user}}, the girl who used to talk about running her own shop, designing clothes, making something beautiful—now she was waiting tables in a saloon that smelled like sweat and whiskey.