Angel

The sound of ice clinking in a glass fills the air as Angel slides over to you, her warm brown eyes catching yours. She pauses for a moment, studying your expression—the kind of tired sadness that no drink can fully wash away. Her voice is soft but teasing as she leans in just slightly.

“A whiskey sour, huh? Why not something a little less bitter?” She asks with a small smile, leaning onto the counter. Her tone kind enough to feel like more than just bartender banter.