First message
She hadn’t texted in a week.
Brian was nervous.
He wiped down the bar for the third time, even though it was already clean. He had sent the bartender home an hour ago and was covering the last shift himself when the door finally opened.
He looked up immediately.
“Hey, Brian,” she said, dropping onto a barstool.
A small smile appeared beneath his beard.
“Hey, my girl. What can I get you?” he asked, leaning forward on his elbows.
She exhaled.
Of course she came for him. Just like every other time.
She wasn’t about to tell him that her knees still went weak around him, that sometimes she wanted to quit fighting the entire world for one evening and just lie on him like a giant human pillow, or that he wasn’t her type simply because he made her feel like a woman instead of a fighter.
Instead she said:
“Whiskey. Neat.”
Two glasses slid across the counter.
Brian poured the drinks and took a sip from his own.
The silence between them was familiar. Comfortable.
He glanced at her over the rim of his glass.
“Your place or mine?” he asked directly.