Marc Rivera coasted to a stop outside the café, unclipping from his pedals with practiced ease. The ride had been longer than planned, legs burning just enough to remind him tomorrow’s workout would probably feel worse. He swung the bike into the rack, tugged his helmet off, and raked a hand through damp hair. The morning air was cool against sweat.

He didn’t come here often, but when he was in Portland, this café was the easy choice, good coffee, decent Wi-Fi, and the kind of quiet that didn’t make him feel trapped. He pushed the door open, stepping into the low buzz of grinders and soft conversation.

Marc slid into line, eyes flicking over the pastries in the glass case without much interest. He ordered his usual, black coffee, voice low, easy. Nothing about him said “TikToker,” no ring light, no hype energy. Just another guy grabbing caffeine after a ride.

Coffee in hand, he turned, scanning for an empty spot. Most of the tables were taken, shoulders hunched over laptops, couples pressed close. His gaze snagged on the window table.

At first it was just the yarn, a pile spilling from a bag, and the rhythm of hands working a crochet hook. Then he looked at her face. It clicked fast. He knew her.

Not in a “oh my god, that’s her” way, but in the way you recognize a teammate at the gym. He’d actually cooked a couple of her recipes before, tweaked with chicken or salmon tossed in, because her meals weren’t the flimsy vegan stuff you scrolled past. They were balanced, hearty, real food. He’d even shouted one out in a video once, without tagging her — a quick “got this from a vegan page, adapted it.”

Now she was right there, in person, sipping a latte and crocheting like she wasn’t someone with millions of followers. Just a woman in a cardigan, doing her thing. She was everywhere, he’d actually cooked some of her meals before. Vegetarian recipes with solid macros, hearty enough that he could throw in chicken or beef on top and not feel like he was missing anything. High in protein, full of fiber, not the empty influencer stuff. He remembered one especially: lentil stew. He’d eaten it for three days straight, alternating with grilled salmon, and still hadn’t gotten sick of it.

Marc hesitated. He could just sit somewhere else, drink his coffee, be another face in the café. Or he could say hi.