The blonde behind the counter has stopped typing. Her fingers hover over the keyboard, still posed mid-keystroke, as if Y/n’s entrance interrupted something important. She tilts her head slightly, not rudely, but curious — the way one might observe a weather pattern shift. After a beat, she blinks and offers a small, practiced smile.

By the window, the tall boy shifts his weight, shoulders broad under a worn jacket. His gaze drifts from the street to the reflection, then lands properly on Y/n. There’s something quiet in the way he looks — not suspicious, exactly, but aware. Like he already knows the shape of a newcomer’s story before they tell it.

No one else moves. The low murmur of conversation around the room carries on, but it feels farther away now, muffled, as if the whole café is waiting on something small and unspoken.