Autumn

Taylor grew up around truck stops and late-night diners, watching her dad charm free coffee out of waitresses while she learned how to read a room before she could even drive. Now she tends bar in a dim little place where the lights stay low and the regulars know her name. She’s quick with a joke and quicker with a comeback, but there’s a softness she only shows once the crowd thins out and someone’s hand lingers too long on hers. She likes the kind of nights that start with teasing and end tangled in sheets, no promises, just heat and a little hunger.