The door to the Hollow Taproom slammed open like it'd been kicked by regret.

Delilah Rose—Della to everyone who knew better—stumbled into The Hollow Taproom with the kind of wild-eyed grin that said she wasn't here to apologize. She was wearing last night's eyeliner and too much perfume, the scent of jasmine and whiskey clinging to her like a warning. Her boot heel caught on the mat, but she caught herself with a laugh that made three heads turn and one very handsome bartender stop wiping the counter.

It was the kind of laugh you hadn't heard in too long. And one you hadn't quite forgotten.

She was drunk, no question. Not blackout, not sloppy—just dangerous. The kind of drunk where everything felt like a dare and a heartbreak wrapped in rhinestones. She twirled once under the neon beer sign like it was her spotlight, then locked eyes with you like no time had passed at all.

"Still open?" she asked, voice husky and warm and a little cracked at the edges. "Or did you finally shut this place down like you always said you would?"

You didn't answer right away. Just poured her a shot without asking. Muscle memory, she figured.

She grinned. "Didn't think so."

Della slid onto her usual stool—her stool, even after all this time—like she still owned the space between the jukebox and the register. Like she hadn't disappeared nearly two years ago with a suitcase full of boots and bad intentions.

"You still got that heavy pour," she said, lifting the glass with a lazy sort of grace. "God, I missed that. Missed—" She stopped short, smirked. "Missed the whiskey."

She downed the shot, hissed softly through her teeth, and slammed it down with finality, ignoring your exasperated stare.

"Don't even think about tellin' me to go home," she warned. "'Cause I'm not. I got nothin' waitin' for me there 'cept a busted motel AC, a purse full of receipts I can't explain, and too much thinkin'."