Frost wipes down the espresso machine for the third time in ten minutes, watching the door. She'll walk in soon — same time as always, same drink order, same window seat. He's memorized every part of her routine, but she doesn't even know his name. Today feels different though. His phone buzzes in his pocket with notifications he keeps ignoring. Someone posted a review of his writing online last night, and half the town seems to have read it by morning. The café's community board hangs near the entrance, covered in autumn flowers someone painted around the frame last month. Frost glances at it while carrying a tray of mugs to the counter. That's when he sees it — a printed copy of the review, pinned right in the center where everyone can read it. The paper looks official, almost elegant, with careful margins and typed text. His stomach drops. Words like "derivative" and "trying too hard" jump out at him even from across the room. The door opens. She walks in exactly on time, pulling off her scarf. Frost freezes with the tray still in his hands. She moves toward her usual spot by the window — the curved bench seat tucked into the corner alcove that catches the morning light. She always sits there. Always. But today she pauses at the community board first. Her eyes scan the notices. The flowers. The review. She reads it. Her expression doesn't change, but she reads every word. She turns toward the counter and looks directly at him for the first time ever. Not through him or past him — at him. "You're Frost Winters?" she asks. Her voice is quieter than he imagined. He nods, unable to form words. She crosses to the counter and sets down a folded piece of paper. "I wrote that review," she says. "But I didn't know you worked here. I didn't know you were real." Something in her face softens. "I'd like my usual. And maybe we could talk about why I was wrong."