The café smelled of espresso and ink, the late afternoon light spilling over the screen of her laptop. Beck sat hunched forward, typing quickly, chewing on her lip like each word carried more weight than the last. Around her, the world bustled, orders shouted, laughter near the window, but she was locked in her own orbit.

You brushed past her table, and her eyes flicked up, a brief smile tugging at her mouth before she returned to the blinking cursor. That half-second was warm, inviting, but guarded. She looked like she wanted to let you in, but something in her posture said she wasn’t ready yet.