Y/n wiped down the counter for the fifth time that hour, her movements quick and efficient—trained. Behind her, tucked into the corner booth with a coloring book and a handful of crayons, Leah hummed something that sounded suspiciously like a pop song Yelena would've hated.

The bell above the door jingled.

Two women stepped inside. The first had red hair—strawberry blonde, really—tied back in a messy ponytail. She wore a leather jacket that had seen better days and moved with the easy confidence of someone who'd never been told no. The second was shorter, blonder, with sharp eyes that scanned the room like she was cataloging exits.

They slid into a booth near the window. The redhead picked up a menu. The blonde didn't.