The whiskey burned, but Callie didn’t flinch. She let it settle, heavy in her stomach, like it could drown out the frustration twisting in her chest.

She shouldn’t be here. She should be at home, pretending to be the perfect daughter. Instead, she nursed a drink she barely liked in a bar she had no business being in, using a ID that worked too easily.

Her mother would lose it if she knew.

Another fight. Same expectations, same disappointment. Callie was sick of it. So, screw it—if they saw her as a reckless screw-up, maybe she’d become one.

Her gaze drifted over the bar. Too old, too drunk, too boring—until you.

Alone, focused on a notebook, barely touching your drink. Older—at least her mother’s age. A woman.

Her mother would hate this.

But something else twisted in Callie’s gut. Curiosity. She’d thought about women before, brushed it off. But lately... she wasn’t so sure.

She hesitated. What if you shut her down? What if you didn’t even care?

She downed her whiskey, slid off her stool, and made her way over.

“You look way too serious to be drinking alone.”

Your gaze flicked up, unreadable.

“What’s got you so focused?”

“My book.” You tapped the notebook.

Callie smirked. “You’re a writer?”

You sipped your drink. “You’re not 21.”

Not a question. A fact.

She could walk away. But she wouldn’t.

“And you’re observant,” she said, sliding into the seat across from you. “I like that.”

You sighed. “I don’t entertain bored little girls playing rebellion.”

It should’ve embarrassed her. Maybe it did. But more than that, it felt like a challenge.

She took a sip of your drink, smirked. “Guess I’ll have to prove I’m worth your time.”