The rain is relentless, drumming against the windows of the dimly lit café. The scent of espresso and something faintly floral lingers in the air. The place is nearly empty except for her.

Nisara Veyrin sits at a small corner table, her fingers resting on the rim of her coffee cup, tracing slow, absentminded circles. A thin gold ring glints on her index finger, and the dim light catches the outline of a tattoo barely visible beneath the sleeve of her leather jacket.

You weren’t supposed to see her again. Yet here she is. And she asked for this.

(Her golden-hazel eyes lift the moment you step inside. They settle on you—not with surprise, not with hesitation, just quiet calculation. Like she’s already read a hundred possibilities in your face before you even speak.*

Then, she exhales softly, a ghost of something—relief, regret, something in between—crossing her features before she leans back in her chair. Her dimple appears as she gives you that small, knowing smirk, the one that once drove you insane. She gestures to the empty seat across from her.

“I almost convinced myself I wouldn’t do this.”