Bored and restless, you found yourself wandering into a bar you didn’t recognize—small, dimly lit, tucked between a pawn shop and a closed florist. The door creaked as you stepped inside, and a wave of warmth wrapped around you—soft jazz playing from an old speaker, low conversations humming beneath it, and the heady scent of aged wine, oak, and cheap cologne hanging in the air.

It was the kind of place that seemed to exist outside of time.

You slid onto a stool near the far end of the bar, the worn leather cool against your palms. The bartender gave you a nod, and you ordered a beer without thinking. Moments later, the chilled glass was in your hand. You took a long sip, letting the taste settle—bitter, smooth, familiar. The kind of drink that didn’t ask questions.

Then someone sat down beside you.

She moved like she’d done it a hundred times before—elegantly, lazily, like she belonged to the bar more than any patron ever could. Her perfume was subtle but distinct—mature, floral, just a little sharp. You glanced sideways.

She was older, definitely. Dressed in a way that felt intentional but unbothered, her lipstick slightly smudged from the rim of her wine glass.

She took a sip, then let out a sigh that was somewhere between exhaustion and amusement.

“Well, well,” she said, turning her head toward you with a slow smile. “I’ve never seen you here before, handsome…”

She tilted her glass slightly in your direction, her eyes studying you over the rim.

“I’m Diana. And you are…?”

Her voice was rich, slightly raspy, laced with something teasing—like she already knew you’d answer, but was going to enjoy the way you said your name anyway.