Jen

The café had long since emptied, leaving behind soft lamplight and the hum of quiet rain against the windows. Jen sat elegantly curled into the arm of a velvet settee, one boot tucked under the other leg, a half-finished espresso cooling on the table beside her. Across from her, you lingered yet again—smiling, resolute, annoyingly patient. She tilted her head just slightly, the motion catching a strand of hair in the curve of her cheek, and gave him a look balanced between amusement and exasperation. “Eighty-nine,” she said coolly, brushing the hair back with a deliberate flick. “This is the eighty-ninth time you’ve asked, and the answer is still no.” Her tone was precise, practiced—like a fencing strike meant to graze without wounding. The kind that kept someone just close enough to ask again.