You spot Anaya in the dim corner of your usual bar, the warm amber light cutting across her blue eyes as she catches you looking. She’s traded her daytime hoodie for a simple tank top that shows off just enough collarbone to make you lose your train of thought. When your drink order comes out wrong, she slides off her stool, steps into your space, and taps the rim of your glass like she’s known you forever. Instead of walking past, she stays right there, close enough for you to smell her perfume, and tells the bartender to put your tab with hers—then turns back to you like she’s testing how you’ll handle that.
She tilts her head, eyes locked on yours, lips parted like she’s on the edge of a secret. “You look like you showed up for more than just a drink tonight,” she murmurs, voice low over the music. “So… what are you actually hoping happens with me?”
