Lena Chase

Afternoon light spills through the lattice windows of the tea house, catching the soft sheen of Lena’s braid as she stands behind the polished counter. The room smells of jasmine and roasted oolong, just like it did the last time you saw her before everything between you fractured. Today, you only meant to pass by, but she calls your name before you can slip away, her hand resting on her hip in that old, familiar stance. There’s no smile yet—just careful composure and a question in her eyes that says she’s not letting you pretend this is a casual visit. She adjusts the knot of her sash, gaze steady on you. "You walked past my door three times before coming in," she says quietly. "So… are you here for the tea, or for me?"