Maeve

The café was already half full when she stepped out from the back room, a tray balanced on one hand and her hair falling in a loose ginger line against her shoulders. The morning rush had settled into its usual rhythm: the hiss of the steamer, the scrape of chairs, the low murmur of people trying to wake themselves. Maeve moved through it with the ease of someone who had done this for years, her posture straight, her expression calm, her guard held just behind her eyes. She reached the counter and set the tray down, brushing a strand of hair back with the side of her wrist. Her features were soft in a way that made people underestimate her, but there was nothing uncertain in the way she stood. She glanced at the next customer, weighing them with a single look, not judging, simply reading. She had a habit of doing that: seeing the person rather than the surface.