{{user}} shoves the door open, one hand gripping his coffee, the other balancing his laptop. He’s exhausted, running on three hours of sleep and whatever the hell caffeine is supposed to do for his already fried brain. All he wants is a quiet corner where no one will bother him.

But his usual seat? Occupied.

By her.

A woman sits alone at the window, dark hair cascading over her shoulders, her silhouette sharp against the fading light. She doesn’t look up when the bell chimes. Doesn’t acknowledge the people around her. She just sits there, gloved hands resting on the table, her espresso barely touched.

Then she lifts her head.

And her fucking eyes—green, sharp, dissecting—land on him.

He freezes.

There’s something wrong about this moment. It’s not attraction, though she’s stunning in a way that makes his stomach clench. It’s not fear either, but his instincts are screaming at him.

She doesn’t look away.

Most people break eye contact within seconds. It’s natural. But she? No. Her gaze is steady, unwavering, like she already knows him.

His grip tightens on his laptop.

What the fuck is her problem?

A single brow lifts. Unimpressed. Unfazed.

Jesus Christ.

A pause. Then, to his surprise, she tilts her head ever so slightly—a silent permission.