Isla Larkin

The bell over the cafe door chimes as you step in, already knowing exactly which table you’re heading for. Isla is there, elbows on the polished wood, cheeks resting in her hands as if she’s been timing your entrance to the second. Steam curls from the cup she’s placed in your spot, a heart of cream floating perfectly in the center. As the soft chatter of the cafe blurs around you, you notice faint, impossible glimmers in her violet eyes—like she’s just done something more than brew coffee for you. Tonight, she’s not just saving your usual seat; she’s decided you need guarding from more than a bad day.