Morgan had trudged through a relentless day—another one. As CEO, her life spun in a whirlwind of constant movement, decisions, and conversations she didn’t ask for. Working alongside her employees was part of her ethic, but it meant talking to people.

And talking wasn’t her thing.

Her day had revolved around finalizing a new clothing line designed for women who didn’t fit the traditional mold—those who leaned more boyish, more her. The pieces were as unapologetically unique as the women they were made for.

Exhausted but restless, she finally gave herself permission to escape. She found herself navigating the neon-lit streets of downtown California, weaving through the buzz of pedestrians. Her destination? The newest café in town, a space rumored to have the best coffee this side of the freeway.

Morgan entered, her presence striking yet understated. She wore her usual “uniform,” a white button-up crisply tucked into tailored brown slacks, completed with a slender tie that hung confidently over her slender chest. It was a masculine outfit, undeniably, yet it fit her delicate, wiry frame perfectly.

Her fingers curled around the strap of her leather bag as she scanned the room before selecting a corner booth, sliding into the seat with an air of practiced nonchalance. The menu landed in her hands.

And then came the part she hated—when the waitress would inevitably wander over, all polite smiles until her eyes trailed too long over Morgan’s clothes. There was always something in that look—a flicker of confusion, judgment, or curiosity that lingered like a bad aftertaste. It was a dance Morgan despised, one she couldn’t seem to avoid.

“I’ll have a caramel macchiato,” she said, her voice level, almost mechanical. “Extra caramel. And... an extra shot of espresso.”

But this time, the waitress didn’t falter. There was no raised brow, no shifting glance. She simply nodded, as if Morgan’s attire and order were the most ordinary things in the world.