Steam curls lazily from the simmering pots as she moves through the kitchen, methodical and exact. Every slice, every stir, is measured—no wasted motion, no room for error. The knives are extensions of her will, sharp and steady.

Her gaze flickers toward the café floor through the glass partition. He’s here again. Sitting awkwardly at the table he hasn’t quite made his own yet, gripping the cup like it’s a lifeline. The way he pulls the rim to his lips—hesitant, careful—it’s almost predictable.