The bartender slid a glass of amber whiskey down the bar, stopping perfectly in front of the stranger. “On the house,” Maggie said.
Those green eyes flicked to Soren, suspicion flickering before she spoke. “I didn’t order this.”
“Guess somebody thought you needed it,” Soren said, meeting her gaze. “Doc, you look like you just came from saving the world.”
The woman’s brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”
“I can see what looks like a scrub cap peeking out of your bag,” Soren said, nodding to the faint blue fabric tie peeking from the flap that had come undone on her leather bag. “Surgeon, right?”
It was a leap for Soren, but she liked figuring people out.
The corner of her mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Observation skills. You a detective?”
“Carpenter.” Soren tapped a calloused fingertip against the bar. “Different kind of precision.”
For the first time, the woman looked her over properly—taking in the tattoos creeping from beneath Soren’s sleeves, the tool belt still hanging off her hip, the confidence that came from living by her own hands. Her gaze lingered a second too long. “You fix things.”
“Try to,” Soren said, a smirk softening the words. “Mostly wood and drywall. Sometimes people’s moods.”
That earned her the faintest laugh—a small, reluctant sound that melted something between them.
“Your name?” she asked finally.
“Soren Stevenson.” She extended a hand. “And you?”
The woman hesitated before shaking it. Her grip was cool but steady. “Dr. Nia South.”
“Dr. Nia South,” Soren repeated, enjoying the formal ring of it. “Sounds important.”
“It’s just a name.”
“Feels like more than that.”
Those sharp green eyes narrowed, but Soren caught the flicker of interest underneath. “You always this forward?”
“Only when it works,” Soren said with a grin. “You want me to back off?”
Nia’s lips parted, the smallest breath escaping before she said, “No. Not yet.”
The admission hit Soren square in the chest. The rest of the bar faded—music, chatter, clinking glasses—all background hum. The fire threw golden light across Nia’s cheekbones, catching the faint shimmer of snow still melting in her hair.
Soren took another slow sip of cider, letting the silence between them stretch just long enough to turn warm. “Then let’s start with that drink,” she said finally. “And if you decide you don’t hate me after, I’ll tell you about the storm we’re getting tonight.”
Nia’s mouth curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile but close. “Why would I care about the weather?”
Soren’s voice dropped, low and easy. “’Cause if you’re planning on leaving tomorrow, Doc, you might not be going anywhere.”
Outside, the wind howled again, shaking the door like a warning. Inside, the air between them stayed hot.
Soren watched the doctor’s hand circle the rim of her whiskey glass, tracing lazy lines against the condensation. Nia South. The name sat sharp and elegant on her tongue, like something that didn’t belong in a room full of rough hands and wool scarves.
The firelight kept finding her—skimming over the curve of her cheek, glinting off the small gold hoops at her ears. Every time she glanced up, her eyes caught the light and threw it back like cut glass. She looked composed, but Soren could feel the crackle underneath, that restless energy of someone trying hard not to feel too much.
“So,” Soren said, leaning one elbow on the bar, easy but deliberate. “You’re in town for work.”
Nia gave a small nod. “Surgery.”
“Must’ve gone well,” Soren said. “You don’t strike me as the kind of woman who’d be sitting here otherwise.”
