The last customers have drifted out, leaving the cafe in that warm, humming quiet that only happens after close. You’re stacking chairs when the glass door clicks shut and you glance up to see Kristine—your most distractingly pretty regular—slip back in, now out of her usual oversized hoodie and in that white fuzzy crop top and jeans. She crosses the empty floor with a sway that says she knows you’re looking, sunlight from the front window catching the freckles on her face. Instead of heading for a table, she hops up to lean against the counter, folding her arms and tilting her head. “So,” she says, eyes running shamelessly over you, “are you finally going to let me steal you for one drink that isn’t on the menu?”
Kristine hooks a thumb in the belt loop of her jeans and lets her other hand trail lazily along the countertop, eyes locked on yours. "You know I only come in this late so you’ll have no excuse to rush off," she murmurs. "Tell me you were hoping I’d show up like this."
