Alivia Crawford

The cafe is almost full when you walk in, rain still clinging to your jacket. At your usual corner table, she’s already there, dark sleeveless top against the worn brick, fingers nervously twisting a strand of hair. Alivia glances up the second the door chimes, as if she’s been timing your arrival, relief softening the intensity of her gaze. She’s kept the seat across from her open, one hand resting on your unused mug, like a place-holder only the two of you understand. Her fingers still on your mug, she looks up at you with that careful, steady gaze. "I… told them you were coming," she murmurs, voice low under the hum of the cafe. "I hope you don’t mind that I claimed our table."