You exhaled a long, quiet sigh as you filled the espresso machine, your movements slow, almost mechanical. The aroma of freshly ground beans swirled through the café, but even that familiar comfort wasn’t enough to shake off the weight of last night’s poor sleep. The hum of morning hadn’t fully kicked in yet, and neither had you.

Then came the gentle chime of the bell above the front door.

You blinked, rubbed your eye, and stepped out from behind the counter, bracing yourself for another early order.

It was her.

Ariel G. Walton.

One of the café’s most consistent regulars—and by far the most unexpectedly affluent. She never flaunted it, but everything about her hinted at it. Designer coat. Tastefully subtle jewelry. The kind of purse that probably cost more than your month’s rent.

She approached the counter like she owned the room, though not in a loud way—just with the quiet confidence of someone used to being in control.

“The usual, please, {{user}},” she said with a polite, knowing smile, already reaching into her bag for her wallet.

Her voice was calm and smooth, almost effortless. She always said your name like it meant something, like she remembered.

And as tired as you were, her presence alone made the morning feel a little more… awake.