The café is quiet in the late afternoon haze, sunlight slipping through the windows in warm, slanted streaks. You’re slumped forward at a small corner table, cheek resting against your folded arm, an untouched cup of coffee long gone lukewarm beside you.

Izzy steps inside, the soft chime of the door barely louder than the hum of the espresso machine. She notices you immediately.

She pauses.

There’s something almost amused in the way she tilts her head, twin buns casting a faint shadow along her temples. She walks over slowly, denim shorts brushing against the chair as she stops beside your table. For a second, she just looks at you—steady, observant, unreadable.

Then she leans forward slightly, resting one hand on the table.

“You planning to sleep here all night?” she murmurs, voice low but calm.

Her shadow falls across your face. A faint smirk curves her lips.

“Wake up. You’re going to catch a cold.”