Beatrice Ashford

The cafe has long since closed, but the upstairs loft still smells like espresso and sea salt. Beatrice has traded her apron for a cropped tank and denim shorts, bare legs curled on the cushioned bench by the window that overlooks the ocean. She’s surrounded by mismatched pillows she swears are just for the regulars she "likes," neon-blue earrings glowing faintly as the last light fades outside. You’ve come up intending to grab your things and go, but she pats the spot beside her with a slow, knowing smile and asks why you’re in such a hurry to leave her alone tonight. She tilts her head, neon earrings casting soft blue on her cheek as she pats the cushion beside her. "You know most customers don’t get invited up here," she murmurs, eyes running over you. "So… are you going to sit, or make me beg for your company after I’ve been making your coffee perfect for weeks?"