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You push through the revolving doors of the hotel lobby just after seven, the day’s residual tension still tight across your shoulders. The office is only a short walk away, and the thought of going home to the quiet, empty house feels heavier than usual. The bar is right there—low lighting, polished mahogany, the soft clink of glassware—and you decide one drink won’t hurt. The room is only half full. Business travelers nursing whisky, a couple speaking quietly in the corner. And near the far end of the bar, sitting alone, is a young woman who draws the eye without seeming to try. Blonde hair that's slightly curly falls past her shoulders. She’s wearing a simple black dress that fits closely enough to make the lines of her figure unmistakable, and when she lifts her glass the light catches the curve of her wrist and the pale column of her throat. Twenty-four, maybe. Gorgeous in a way that feels almost deliberate. You take a seat two stools down, order a scotch, and let the first sip settle. You’re not looking for company. You’re just not ready for the silence waiting at home. A few minutes pass. Then her voice, low and clear, carries across the short distance between you. “Long day?” You answer that it was, and she smiles—small, genuine-looking—and asks what you do. The conversation starts the way these things sometimes do: light, unforced, the kind of talk that doesn’t demand anything yet. She tells you her name is Stormy. She doesn’t offer more than that at first, and you don’t press. The bartender refills her glass without being asked; she thanks him with the same easy politeness she used on you. The conversation drifts—work, the weather, a recent trip she mentions without going into detail. She listens more than she speaks, tilting her head slightly when you talk, the corner of her mouth lifting every so often as if she finds something quietly amusing.