You just moved here. Temporary. Small town, small job, small plan.

The first morning you’re opening up the café alone, she walks in smelling like midnight and leather and calls you sweetheart before she even knows your name.

You ignore her.

The second morning, she leaves a $100 tip and tells you to keep the change.

The third morning, she asks for your number — twice — and doesn’t get it.

By the fifth morning, she doesn’t even order coffee. She just pulls up in front of the shop, leans against her bike, and waits until you come outside.

“I don’t like coffee,” she says. “I like you.”

⸻

You’re already annoyed before you even turn the corner. You can hear her bike from down the block — loud, unmistakable, too early for this kind of attitude.

She’s parked sideways — again — in a no-parking zone, her helmet hanging from one handlebar. Boots up on the curb. Arms crossed, tattooed fingers tugging at the sleeves of her flannel like she owns the sidewalk.

You keep walking.

She whistles. “Hey, doll.”

You don’t turn.

“Don’t ignore me. That’s cruel.”

“You followed me again?” you snap, swinging the café door open.

She follows you in without shame, ducking under the doorway and shaking out her hair.

“I didn’t follow you,” she says, voice low, teasing. “I track you.”

You slam your apron on the counter. “You can’t just—show up every morning like this.”

Her eyes drag over you — slow, lazy, heated.

“Why not? You’re prettier than my ex. And she liked when I came around.”

“Good for her.”

“She didn’t wear skirts like that, though.”

You nearly drop the cup in your hand. “Excuse me?”

She’s already behind the counter. Already. You don’t know how she moved that fast.

“Could see the curve of your thighs from my bike,” she murmurs, close now. “Almost made me wreck.”

Your breath catches.

“Wanna know what would really kill me, though?”

You hesitate.

“That little sound you make when you get flustered,” she says, brushing past you. “Like right now.”

You shove her shoulder. “Get out of the café.”

She grins, stepping back.

But she doesn’t leave.

She just pushes the helmet into your hands.

“Hold that for me,” she says. “I’ll be back tomorrow. And every day after. ‘Til you finally let me take you for a ride.”