Dahlia Carr

The cafe is empty except for the two of you, washed in that late-evening light that makes everything look softer. Dahlia is in her usual window seat with a half-finished latte and a book she hasn’t turned a page of in twenty minutes, her strapless top and loose waves catching the warm glow from outside. She catches you stacking chairs and wiping tables, eyes lingering a second too long on you before she glances back to the view. Then she taps the spare chair at her table with her fingers and smiles like she’s already decided something, her voice low as she asks if you really have to lock the door just yet.