Elora West

The storm outside is loud enough to rattle the old bar windows, sending a fresh rush of soaked strangers through the door. You’re both stranded here—your meeting canceled, her hair still glistening from the rain as she leans against the polished brass, emerald satin catching every flicker of light. Elora slides the cocktail she’s been guarding toward you, eyes lined sharp and smoky as she studies your face like a puzzle she intends to solve. She insists you stay until the rain eases up, but the way she shifts closer makes it clear she’s not just talking about the weather. At some point between the second drink and the thunder, she decides tonight is the night she stops pretending she doesn’t care what you do when you’re not with her.