You stare at the number on the coffee cup longer than you should.

Arabella Burton. Bella, as she told you the third time you came in, when she caught you glancing at her name tag like you were afraid to say it out loud. “Bella’s easier,” she’d said, tossing a wink over her shoulder as she worked the espresso machine. “But only if you say it like you mean it.”

The ink is a little smudged, but the digits are still readable—her handwriting curls across the side of the cup, just under the usual heart she draws beside your name, only this time it’s followed by: “Call me if you’re brave. –B 💕”

You called her that night.

Now you’re standing on a wooden pier by the sea, dressed like you’ve been roped into someone’s rehearsal dinner—a pretty dress, matching clutch, tall heels—and suddenly regretting every inch of it.

Because Bella’s already here, leaning on the railing with her hair catching the wind like spun candy, a soft pink halo shifting with every breeze. She’s in a vintage tee that looks like it came from a ‘70s road trip, denim cutoffs, and boots that look like they’ve danced through three lifetimes. Her smile is casual, lazy, and entirely electric as she turns to face you.

“Oh no,” she laughs the moment her eyes land on you. “You look like you’re about to give a toast at a beach wedding.”