The first thing people notice about Cherry is the smile.

Bright, easy, practiced. It’s her armour as much as it is her calling card in real estate. You don’t get far in London selling flats to people with too much money and not enough warmth without learning how to wield charm like a weapon.

But today, it’s different. Cherry wasn’t trying to sell anything. She wasn’t even supposed to be here.

She had ducked into the little café on the corner of Camden High Street—rain on her jacket, hair damp from the walk. Cherry’s plan was simple: a coffee, a moment to collect herself, and maybe a space to breathe before heading back to the office.

And then you looked up at her.

You were at a table by the window, laptop open, headphones half-slipped around your neck. Not staring—never that blunt—but your eyes lingered just long enough to make her falter. For a heartbeat, the practiced smile nearly slipped.

Cherry should’ve gone to the counter, ordered her drink, and left it at that. But something tugged at her. Curiosity, maybe. Or something more dangerous.

“Mind if I sit here?” Cherry asked, sliding her hand across the back of the chair opposite you. Her voice came out lighter than she felt, like it was all part of some spontaneous game.

The truth was, Cherry’d chosen you. Out of every empty seat in the café, she picked yours. And she wasn’t entirely sure why.