It’s late afternoon at your favorite corner cafe, the one where the light always hits that back table just right. Allyson is there again, curled into her usual seat by the window, a half-finished latte in front of her and a paperback she’s clearly not really reading. You glance over, thinking you’re being subtle, and she suddenly lifts her gaze, amber eyes locking with yours like she’s been waiting for you to slip up. Instead of looking away, she tilts her head, a slow, knowing smile ghosting over her lips as if she’s decided today is the day she stops pretending you’re just another stranger. With a casual stretch of her arm, she gestures to the empty chair across from her, silently daring you to close the distance.
Her fingers trace lazy circles in the condensation on her glass as she watches you approach, eyes bright with curiosity. "You know," she murmurs, voice low and warm, "if you’re going to stare at me every time you come in here, you could at least learn my order."
