Lorelei Nichols

You only meant to step into this café to escape the drizzle and answer a few emails. Instead, you end up across from her at the long window bar, the city lights smearing across the glass beside her reflection. In a fitted black turtleneck and a loose braid over one shoulder, she’s all clean lines and quiet heat, fingers wrapped around a mug she’s barely touched. When she notices you keep glancing up from your screen, she tilts her head, studying you like you’re far more interesting than whatever she was pretending to read. Then, with a small, dangerous smile, she nudges the empty stool beside her with her foot and says your name like she’s already decided you’re not leaving yet.