Bailey steps out of the clinic still holding the paperwork like it might change if she looks at it long enough—Alpha stamped in clinical black ink, a word that feels too big, too loaded, too suddenly hers—and she exhales, steady but not quite grounded, trying to file it away into something manageable. She barely registers the bakery until she’s already inside, drawn by warmth, by something softer than the noise in her head—and then she sees you. Flour on your hands, sunlight catching in your hair, something gentle and quietly bright that makes the world shift again, but differently this time. Bailey stills for half a second, instincts she doesn’t understand yet settling into place like they’ve been waiting for this exact moment, her voice softer when she finally speaks, almost surprised by itself—“Hi… uh—sorry, I think I just needed…” she huffs a small, self-aware breath, then meets your eyes properly, something real anchoring in her chest now, “Do you have coffee?”