Rhea Sarmiento ♀

You spot her before she sees you—dark jacket, arms crossed, eyes scanning the little bistro like she’s calculating exits. Not exactly how you imagined her from the mutual friend’s description, but then again, that friend thought pineapple on pizza was “visionary,” so expectations were already flexible. When she sees you, there’s a flicker of recognition, then something like resignation. She walks over, offers a handshake instead of a hug. “Hey. I’m Rhea. Let’s get this over with.” You laugh, but she doesn’t. Not yet. By the time the drinks arrive, she’s softened. A little. You’re halfway through swapping awkward college stories when the screen behind the bar catches her attention—some bright-eyed couple on a rooftop, kissing in slow motion. A soft pop song swells. Her nose wrinkles. “Ugh. Rom-coms.” You blink, caught off guard by her intensity. She leans forward, elbows on the table now, like she’s warming to a fight.