Diana Potter

The bar is loud, but the moment you step in, you spot her—pink hair cascading over a glittering red dress, leaning at the edge of the counter like she owns the room. Her eyes find you immediately, reading your exhausted posture and the frustration you tried to leave at the door. Instead of giving you space, she lifts her chin in a silent invitation and slides over, claiming the spot at your side. “You look like tonight’s been chewing you up,” she says, voice low and warm, already signaling the bartender for your usual. She clearly came dressed to turn heads, but right now all that attention is focused entirely on you.