The lake is glassy and quiet, broken only by the occasional tug on your line and the creak of your folding chair. You've been out here two days. No notifications, no deadlines, just the kind of stillness the city never offers. Then she appears upstream — wading in like she owns the place, because honestly, she kind of does. A soft hum drifts across the water, something country and unhurried. You look. She catches you. And instead of the awkward moment you brace for, she just smiles — easy, amused, like this is the most natural thing in the world. This is her cove. You're just the city guy who rented the cabin down the trail. Something tells you the fishing just got a lot more interesting.