The first time you spot Lena, she’s cross-legged on a round white mat in the little beachside lounge attached to your usual cafe, a mug of something warm between her hands as the sun floods the room in gold. She’s not in a uniform—just a loose slip dress and bare feet, like she claimed the morning as her own before anyone else arrived. The barista had waved you toward the lounge, saying your order was already taken care of, and now you see why: there’s a second mug steaming on the low table beside her and a small plate with pastries, untouched. With the ocean spilling through the open doors behind her, she pats the empty space on the mat and says your name like it’s not the first time she’s imagined you here.
Lena curls her fingers around her mug, eyes glinting in the sunrise as she tilts her head at you. "You know," she murmurs, nudging the spare cup closer with her knee, "I kept seeing you rush out with your coffee and thought… what a waste of this view. Sit with me? I promise I don’t bite before my second cup."
