Page 2 of Venus

I never believed in love at first sight.

Not until I wandered into this bar, bleary-eyed, emotionally gutted, on the verge of tears, and saw the words ‘ Double Vodka Raspberry Lemonade’ written in curly pink chalk above the bar. In that moment, it felt like the only thing in the world that made sense.

I slide into an empty corner of the bar top and shrug out of my hoodie.

My salmon-pink scrubs are still wrinkled and damp at the cuffs.

I should just go straight home. I should shower and curl under a blanket.

But the thought of facing the silence in my apartment feels louder than this place ever could .

The bartender, a baby-faced kid who probably just turned twenty-one, wanders over. His name tag says ‘ Noah .’ He gives me a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I’ll take the vodka lemonade,” I say.

He nods, pours, and slides the glass over. “Rough night?”

I stare at the drink for a second before nodding once. “Yeah. Something like that.”

He doesn’t press. Just takes my cash and leaves me alone.

I take a sip, then another. I close my eyes and let the burn trail down my throat like a punishment. I need to feel something other than the loop that’s been playing in my head since the hospital. CPR compressions. A mother’s scream. The cold, still weight of a newborn.

I whisper to myself, “I lost a baby today.”

My voice cracks in the middle of the sentence. My hands start to shake, so I press them flat against the bar top like that’ll hold me together. A single tear breaks loose and slides down my cheek.

It’s my first loss.

I always knew it would happen eventually. The labor and delivery room is beautiful, yes—but it’s also brutal. Birth doesn’t always equal life.

Sometimes, it means grief in the shape of a tiny blue body and a soundless delivery room.

Everyone told me it wasn’t my fault. The nurses, the OB, even the mother, in between her sobs. But that doesn’t matter, because I was the one who held that baby and begged it to breathe .

I remember the wailing mother behind me. Her hoarse voice. Her hands clutching instinctively at nothing. I remember someone trying to pull me away, telling me it was over. But I didn’t want to believe them. I didn’t want to let go.

And now I can’t let go of any of it.

I pick up my drink again. Sip. Breathe. Sip. Breathe.

The seat beside me shifts. I don’t look up. Not until a soft, cautious voice says, “Hi.”

I turn my head and find a man leaning against the bar—tall, confident, a little unsure of himself. His hair is golden-blond and his eyes are soft green, like leaves at the end of summer. There’s a half-smile on his face that feels… safe. Not smarmy. Not performative. Not overbearing.

“Hi,” I say. My voice is thick from crying, but he doesn’t seem put off. In fact, he looks surprised that I spoke.

His smile grows. “I just… uh…” he laughs, embarrassed. “I had to come over and tell you that I think you’re beautiful.” He reaches for my hand and places a chaste kiss to my hand. Weird, but again, somehow not threatening.

I blink at him. Most guys don’t lead with sincerity. They lead with cheap lines and the not-so-subtle threat of their presence. But he stays planted where he is, his hands clasped, his eyes level with mine.

“Thank you,” I say.

He gestures toward my drink. “Can I buy you another?”

I shake my head. “No thanks. I’m at my limit.”

“Lightweight, huh?” he says gently.

I study him. His posture is open but not imposing. His voice is warm but not trying too hard. My eyes flick to his hands. Calloused. Strong. His smart watch sits a little too high on his wrist, revealing a tan line.

“No,” I say. “Just… had a rough day. Needed to feel something other than sorry for myself.”

His smile falters. “I’m sorry.”

From the corner of my eye, I spot two men across the bar, both tall and built like him, watching us with matching expressions of hopeful amusement.

I tilt my head toward them. “Your friends look like they’re rooting for you.”

He glances at them, then shrugs sheepishly. “Ignore them. They think they’re my wingmen.” He offers his hand. “I’m Carter. But my friends call me Vulcan.”

I raise a brow. “Vulcan?”

He shrugs again. “It’s a long story. Firehouse nickname. You know…Vulcan, the Roman God. Fire, steel, destruction… very flattering stuff.” He shimmies a bit further into the bar and relaxes his stance. “Okay, so no drink this time. How about next time?”

I pause. There’s something endearing about the way he’s trying. Like he’s both confident and a little out of his depth. It makes me want to be kind to him, but I can’t let that turn into something. I don’t have the room for anyone else’s fire right now.

“Are you asking me on a date, Goldilocks?”

He grins. “Yeah. I am.”

I give him an apologetic smile. “Sorry, but no thanks. I wasn’t here to…anyway, I just…I should go home.”

He nods, no pressure in his expression. “Okay.” I grab my purse and slide off the stool, but before I reach the door, he calls out, “Wait!”

I stop, one hand on the handle.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

I smile faintly. “Bye.”

And then I’m gone.