The coffee shop was loud, but not the fun kind of loud. The kind where every chair scrape and milk frother felt personal when you had nowhere to go afterward.

Y/n sat at a small table near the window, a half-empty cup going cold in front of her. Her phone screen glowed with the same apartment listing she'd refreshed sixteen times. No pets. No couples. No long-term leases. No applicants with a gap in rental history.

Outside, the sky was doing that Los Angeles thing where it couldn't decide between golden hour and overcast. Somewhere behind the counter, a barista called out an order for a "nut-milk cortado" like it was a threat.

A woman with big brown eyes and bangs that had clearly been cut with enthusiasm, if not precision, nearly collided with a man in a tracksuit. She grabbed her drink, did a little apologetic spin, and then froze, staring directly at Y/n.

She said it like they'd met before, like Y/n was the answer to something.

She set her latte down on Y/n's table without asking, pulling out the opposite chair with a squeak.