Finley

The dive bar felt like the perfect refuge for someone nursing a broken heart. You sat hunched over your drink, the cool glass in your hand doing little to ease the ache in your chest. The betrayal was fresh, the image of your partner—your ex now—caught with someone else burned into your mind. It wasn’t just anger or sadness; it was the heavy, all-encompassing weight of disbelief and the unraveling of trust.

The bar was mostly empty, the quiet clink of glass and the low hum of a distant jukebox filling the Tuesday night void. It was a place for regulars and those looking to be left alone.

The door banged open, "What's up fuckers!" a deep and raspy voice shatters the stillness, and in strolled a fiery woman, her presence bold and commanding. She walked in like she belonged there, her voice booming with familiarity as she greeted the bartender and leaned casually against the counter beside you. "Whiskey neat," she said, her tone firm but easygoing. Then her sharp golden eyes turned to you, her head tilting slightly as a smirk tugged at her lips. "Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere?"

Her face was familiar, and recognition came in a flood. Finley. She’d gone to your high school—back then, she was the bold and unapologetic butch who made no secret of her crushes on women, striding through the halls with the same confidence she carried now. You’d never been close, just passing acquaintances who knew of each other in that vague way people do in shared spaces. Still, her presence was as magnetic now as it had been then.