"God, why do you hate me?"
Elira Quinn muttered under her breath as she sat hunched over a sticky bar counter, her fingers wrapped tightly around a glass of cheap whiskey that tasted more like paint thinner than comfort. The bar was nearly empty, just a few scattered souls nursing their own miseries in some corners.
Elira caught her reflection in the booze-smeared mirror behind the bar—and yep, she looked just as rough as she felt. Her brown hair was piled messily on top of her head, the strands frizzed out from a humid day she'd spent crying and cursing the world. Her eyeliner was smudged beneath both eyes, a lovely gift from earlier tears and a total lack of energy to fix it. Her oversized hoodie was wrinkled and smelled faintly of lemon-scented floor cleaner—one of the few scents her now-former job had permanently burned into her clothes.
She sighed, then lifted the glass and tossed the rest of the whiskey back with one hard swallow, her face twisting at the taste. It burned on the way down, but not enough to kill the ache in her chest.
She'd lost her job that morning—cleaning offices at Virelli Corp, one of those glossy skyscraper joints downtown. Her name was never on the employee directory, but she knew that building better than most executives did. For almost two years, Elira had been the invisible force keeping it spotless. She had been scrubbing toilets in it like a glorified Cinderella without the singing mice. No one ever noticed her unless they needed something, and even then, she was treated like background noise.
She wasn't bitter about the job itself—it was honest work, and she took pride in making the place shine. It paid enough for ramen, rent, and bus fare.
But this morning, that all ended with an accusation so absurd it was almost funny: theft.
A watch had gone missing, a luxury timepiece worth more than her annual salary, and somehow, she was to blame. They'd dragged her to the back office, searched her ratty backpack, patted her down like she was trafficking diamonds in her bra. When they found nothing—surprise—they didn't bother checking the security footage. No. They handed her a termination letter and said she could go quietly, that they wouldn't involve the police out of 'mercy.'
The message was clear: don't fight it.
"Mercy," she scoffed now, raising her empty glass to no one. "Mercy my ass."
Humiliated, jobless, and still trying to process it all, she went to Marcus, her boyfriend of eight months. He barely let her finish explaining before he cut her off with some self-righteous speech about needing to be with someone who had stability.
God, she should've dumped him first.
Elira slammed her empty glass on the counter, earning a slow glance from the bartender, who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.
"Another," she said.
The bartender—a man in his fifties with a beer belly and a permanent scowl—grunted as he poured her another shot. "You sure you don't wanna switch to water, sweetheart?"
"I wanna switch to a parallel universe where today didn't happen," she said, taking the glass from him with a shaky hand.
He gave her a side glance. "Rough day?"
"Rough month. Rough life. Hell, I'm in a committed relationship with disappointment."
He chuckled softly and went back to wiping a glass with a rag that looked like it hadn't been washed since the '90s.
"You know," Elira continued, talking to no one in particular, "I got fired for "stealing" a damn watch. A watch that probably cost more than my rent. They searched me like I was smuggling diamonds in my bra, found nothing, and still kicked me out like a thief. Then my boyfriend breaks up with me because, and I quote, I 'lack stability.' That man hasn't had a job longer than three weeks since I met him."
"Man of the year, clearly," the bartender said dryly.
"He's trash. Premium trash. If he were any more useless, he'd be a screen door on a submarine."
Elira picked up the fresh drink and leaned on the bar with one cheek resting against her palm. "I swear, if one more thing goes wrong, I'm gonna throw hands with the Almighty himself."
"You might have better luck finding a new job than winning that fight." A low, amused voice chimed in from a few stools down.
Elira's head turned sharply. Sitting two seats away was a man she hadn't noticed before. He looked far too clean and polished for a bar like this. Black button-up, sleeves rolled to his elbows, expensive-looking watch gleaming against his wrist. His dark hair was neatly styled, jawline sharp enough to cut glass, and his posture was calm and confident, like he owned the place.
"Sorry," she said, "was that meant for me?"
He glanced at her. "Well, yeah—you're the one here narrating your life out loud."
She stared. "And you're the one who thinks chiming in from across the bar makes you sound deep."
He chuckled. "Just saying, maybe it's not the universe. Maybe it's you."
"Oh, fantastic," she groaned. "A therapist in a designer shirt. Tell me more, wise sir."
He lifted his glass in her direction. "You could start by finding a better job. Then maybe find a better man."
She laughed, sharp and bitter. "Wow. Revolutionary. Never thought of that. Next time I'm choosing careers and lovers from the discount aisle, I'll think of you."
He raised an eyebrow. "You sound like someone who's given up"
She straightened. "And you sound like someone who's never had to choose between bus fare and dinner."
His gaze didn't waver. "You don't know me, lady."
She shot back, "Neither do you. So maybe save the fortune cookie wisdom for someone who asked."
The man's lips quivered. "What is it you want, then?"
She exhaled and stared at her drink. "I want a job that doesn't treat me like dirt. And a man who doesn't run when life gets hard. Someone who can hold his own—and hold me too, on bad days. Loyalty would be nice. Money's optional, but let's be honest—support doesn't pay rent."
He hummed thoughtfully. "You're asking for a rare breed."
She scoffed. "I'm asking for basic decency, not a unicorn."
Tch. This place had lost its charm. Time to bounce. Then, Elira made a soft, tipsy humming sound in her throat as she took a wobbly step.
Elira stood and tried to walk past him, but her boot snagged on a stool leg. She let out a surprised "oof!" as she stumbled sideways. A warm hand caught her by the waist.
"Easy there," he said, that damn calm voice steadying her more than the grip itself.
Elira blinked up at him, their faces now inches apart. He smelled like money and danger—cedarwood, leather, and something expensive she couldn't name if she sold her soul trying.
"Mmm," she murmured, squinting exaggeratedly. "You smell good, like a cologne ad."
His lip twitched.
Without asking permission, she reached out and poked his cheek, then squished it like she was testing the ripeness of a peach. "Wow," she said, voice full of mock wonder. "You're handsome and squishy. That should be illegal."
He arched his brow. "Are you always this handsy with strangers?"
"Only the pretty ones," she whispered dramatically. Then quieter, almost to herself, "...and maybe the ones who look like they won't leave."
She smirked, leaned in, and muttered, "Let's see if you taste as good as you look."
And before either of them could stop it—she leaned in and kissed him.
It was impulsive, soft at first, lips brushing against his like a dare. She expected him to pull away. But he didn't.
Instead, she felt it—the slight smirk that curled against her mouth. A beat later, she felt him shift. His hand slid up her back, his other hand coming to rest at her jaw, and he kissed her back.
This must be what rock bottom with sparkles feels like.