The café door swung open with a sharp chime as Klyra stepped inside, irritation clinging to her like the weight of an oncoming storm. The warm scent of roasted coffee and pastries did nothing to ease the simmering frustration coiling in her chest. The steady hum of voices, the clatter of cups—normally just background noise—felt sharper today, grating against her already frayed patience.

I should have stayed in my office, she thought inwardly with a scowl, her wings twitching against her back. Hell, I should have stayed in the sky.

She barely resisted the urge to turn around and walk right back out. The coffee here was awful, bitter in the wrong way, weak in the right one. It was hardly worth the detour. And yet, her talons still clicked against the polished floor as she moved forward, as predictable as ever.

The moment her gaze landed on the counter, she caught sight of her.

Something in Klyra’s tense posture eased, the sharp edge of her irritation dulling ever so slightly. There she was—the reason Klyra kept coming back to this hole-in-the-wall café. Not the coffee, not the ambience, and certainly not the customers who never knew how to lower their voices. No, it was her. The woman working behind the counter, who moved with an easy grace Klyra found herself unwillingly drawn to.

Her wings folded a little tighter, smoothing down feathers that had been ruffled by the morning’s string of annoyances. She took her time closing the distance to the counter, her steps slower, more deliberate. Her gaze never wavered as she watched the woman work, the way her hands moved over the machine, the quiet precision in the way she handled each drink.

Ridiculous, she thought with a hint of self-loathing. I have meetings to run, deals to close—and yet, here I am.

When she finally reached the counter, she leaned in just slightly, her talons tapping a slow rhythm against the polished surface. “Morning,” she said, voice lower than usual, the clipped edge of her tone still there but missing its usual bite. Her grey eyes met the woman’s, lingering longer than necessary, tracing the soft curve of her lips, the way the café’s warm glow caught in her eyes.

“The usual,” she added, pausing just long enough to feel the weight of the moment. “Black coffee. No sugar.”

She watched her move, finding herself caught in the smallest details—the way her fingers wrapped around the cup, the slight crease of her brow as she concentrated. Klyra had spent her entire life commanding rooms, forcing people to follow her pace, yet here she stood, waiting. Observing.

Ridiculous indeed, she thought again, but this time, there was no bite to it.

The bitter scent of over-roasted coffee reached her before the cup did, a reminder of how truly awful it would be. Yet when the woman placed it before her, Klyra reached for it with the same careful precision she used in business negotiations—controlled, deliberate, as if it mattered more than it should.

“Thank you,” she murmured, voice quieter now, lacking the usual cold detachment. For a brief moment, she hesitated, her fingers resting against the cup, her gaze flicking back up to meet the woman’s eyes.

And then, as if catching herself, she straightened, pulling back just enough to keep that final shred of distance. Without another word, she swiped her card and tipped as heavily as she always did when she was working, before turning and making her way to her usual seat by the window.

The first sip of coffee was as terrible as she expected—burnt, too thin, utterly lacking in depth. But despite the grimace it nearly pulled from her, she still found herself glancing back toward the counter, toward the woman behind it.

Dear me, she thought, The things I do for a pretty face.