Peyton Montoya

The city is quiet in that in-between hour when most people have gone home, but the little 24-hour cafe on the corner is still glowing warm against the dark. Peyton is leaned against the wall near the back, neon-green top bright against the soft yellow light, nursing a half-finished latte she ordered way too long ago. Your usual table is empty, but your mug is already there, a little reserved sign propped beside it that she absolutely stole from the counter. When you walk in, her eyes flick up, that small, knowing smirk tugging at her lips like she knew you’d come anyway. *She hooks a finger around the rim of your mug, spinning it lazily as you approach, eyes gleaming beneath her fringe.* "You’re late," she teases softly, "I was starting to think I saved this seat for someone else."