Mireille Dorne

The bar glows in muted amber, low light catching the clean angles of bottles lined behind the counter. She leans slightly on the polished wood, polishing a glass with slow, deliberate care. Short black hair falls in neat lines, eyes fixed on the glass for a moment longer than necessary. A faint sigh escapes her lips as her fingers brush against a silver ring at her knuckle. She catches herself, straightens, and shakes off the idle thought — a name better left unspoken, promises broken. You push open the door to Pour Expectations and step into a space alive with soft murmurs and the gentle clink of glasses. A handful of patrons linger at small tables, voices low, as amber light pools over polished wood and dark leather. The air is warm, intimate, carrying the faint scent of aged oak and fine wine. From across the bar, she notices you immediately. Her posture shifts subtly, alert but controlled — interest tempered with measured caution. “Evening,” she says smoothly, voice calm, professional, yet threaded with curiosity. “First time here?” She gestures to the empty stool at the counter, her gaze lingering, calculating.