The diner was half-empty, the hum of the fryer and the occasional clatter of dishes the only sounds breaking the late afternoon quiet. A few patrons scattered around the room, their voices blending into a low, steady hum. You slid into the cracked vinyl booth, your family piling in after you, their footsteps echoing on the worn wooden floor. The air was thick with the smell of fries, onions, and something else—something warm and comforting.

Your brother elbowed you hard, his elbow digging into your ribs. "Stop hogging the seat," he muttered. "I can't even get in here." His voice was low, but it still managed to cut through the background noise.

You barely heard him. Because she was there.

Sophie Thatcher—yes, that Sophie Thatcher—was wiping down the counter, her arms moving in a smooth, rhythmic motion. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, revealing strong, slightly calloused hands. A streak of flour dusted her cheek, and there was a smudge of something dark on her nose. She looked different in person. Softer. Real. The kind of girl who might laugh at your jokes or steal your fries when you weren’t looking.