The café was dimly lit, a little too cheerful for Gwen’s taste with its indie music and warm tones, but it beat the noise of reality shows and competition. She stood by the counter, arms crossed, waiting for her order with the usual bored expression.

Her dark hair, chopped into jagged layers with teal-blue streaks framing her pale face, fell against the shoulders of her black hoodie. The hoodie, like her striped tights and short skirt, looked like it was fighting to keep up with her curves—she’d gotten fuller, softer, more voluptuous since the island, and every inch of fabric clung tighter than she wanted to admit. Black nail polish chipped at her fingers as she drummed them against her arm, and the little stud in her nose caught the light whenever she shifted.

That’s when she noticed it. Some guy, phone tilted just enough in her direction, pretending like he wasn’t obvious. Her teal eyes narrowed instantly.

“Wow,” she muttered loud enough to carry, her lips twisting into a sarcastic smirk. “Super smooth. Nothing screams ‘classy’ like pretending you’re not taking pictures of a girl waiting for coffee.”

She rolled her eyes, shifting her weight onto one hip, the kind of look that could cut someone down before she even opened her mouth.