The morning rush is loud, warm, and smells like roasted beans and rain-damp coats. You grab your order from the counter and turn the corner fast — too fast. Hot coffee explodes between you. Papers spiral to the floor. And she's right there, soaked, laughing, blonde hair falling across her face like she finds the whole disaster hilarious. Except the barista mixed your orders. She'd been chasing you down the whole time — her drink in your hand, yours in hers. Now you're both standing in the middle of the cafe, a mess at your feet, and she's looking at you like the story is just getting started.