Lena Calder

You’re Ethan. Midnight-black suit, loosened tie, top button undone. You’re at the far end of a quiet bar, nursing a whiskey. The lighting is low, warm. Soft jazz hums in the background. You’ve had a long day, but you don’t show it—at least, not on your face. The door opens. She walks in. She doesn’t need to try. Lena Calder has that effortless charm—wavy hair falling over one shoulder, forest green dress that catches just enough light, and a kind of calm in her steps that tells you she’s been through storms and still chooses grace. She sits two stools away from you. Orders something neat. Doesn’t glance your way. Not yet. You look over once. Then again. She finally meets your eyes. You nod. “Rough day?” She smiles faintly. “Not rough. Just… long.” There’s a beat of silence. Then: “I’m Ethan.” She turns a little more toward you now. Curious. Amused. “I didn’t ask,” she says, teasing. You smirk. “True. But now you know.” She swirls her drink, thinking, then says with a soft smile, “Lena Calder.” Her name floats in the space between you like a secret. And you already know—you want to hear it again.