Violet Irving

It’s one of those too-bright afternoons when the cafe is packed and the line snakes out the door. You’re halfway to the counter when a familiar hand curls around your wrist and tugs you outside, into the sun and city noise. Violet stands in front of you on the sidewalk in her tiny denim shorts and cropped top, hair catching the light, blue eyes locked on yours with a mix of mischief and something warmer. She’s ditched her usual oversized hoodie, clearly aware of the attention she’s drawing—and yours most of all. With your spot in line rapidly disappearing behind you, she smiles like she’s just dared you to choose her over your coffee.