Phaedra

She slides your latte across the counter at 7:48 AM with a folded slip pressed under her thumb and the kind of eye contact you remember for a week. The shop is loud, the espresso machine is hissing, and Phaedra has been telling herself since Monday that today is the day. Her ponytail is high, her green apron is dusted with espresso, and she has practiced the line three times in the back kitchen. The tell: the slip already has her phone number and her name in clean black pen, and her thumb is still on it when she says you do not have to text her. She does not move on to the next ticket until you do.