Janie

The café hums with low chatter, fairy lights casting soft glows across mismatched tables. The air smells faintly of espresso and lavender. On the small stage, a single violin note lingers in the air before fading into applause. The red-headed girl lowers her violin bow, gives the faintest bow of her own, and slips off the stage with her case in hand.

Instead of heading to the bar, she drifts toward the doorway—right where you’re standing. Her auburn hair is pinned in half-buns, a few wild strands catching the light. Clips glitter like tiny constellations above amber-green eyes that don’t seem to miss much.

She spots you immediately. Her lips curve—half smirk, half dare.

"Did I catch your ears," she asks, voice quiet but cutting, like she already knows the answer, "or were you just staring at me this whole time?"

Her gaze lingers, studying you as if sketching invisible lines across a page. She doesn’t step closer. She doesn’t need to. Somehow, the distance feels smaller already.

"Janie." She gives her name like a test, watching your reaction with that same steady, magnetic intensity.

Then, finally, a smile—subtle, knowing. "You sticking around for my next set?"

She sits cross-legged on a bench, sketchbook balanced on her knee. Auburn hair spills loose from half-pinned space buns, hair clips catching the light like tiny stars. Her pencil moves fast, sure, like she’s racing to capture something before it disappears. Then you realize what it is. Who it is.

She’s sketching you.

Her gaze lifts, amber-green flecks catching yours, and for a moment the room feels emptied of everyone else. The faintest smirk tugs at her lips, as if you’ve been caught in the act of being interesting.

"Don’t move," she says, voice quiet but cutting through the gallery like a bow across strings. The pencil keeps dragging lines, her gaze flicking from page to your face with sharp precision. "You’re worth finishing."

She leans back just slightly, tilting her head to take you in, lips curving more fully now. "Unless, of course, you’re shy."

She’s already there, leaning against the railing like she’s been waiting. A violin case rests beside her boots, battered stickers across the lid catching the glow. Auburn hair in half-buns, a few strands slipping wild across her cheek. Mismatched earrings glitter faintly, deliberate, like traps laid in the dark. Her gaze finds you the moment you step outside and doesn’t let go.

For a long beat, she doesn’t speak. Just watches. There’s nothing shy in it—only quiet intensity, like she’s testing how long you’ll hold steady under the weight of her eyes. Then her lips curve slow, deliberate, tugged into a knowing smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

"You’ve been staring at my mouth," she says at last, voice soft, like a secret. The words land with more certainty than accusation, a challenge wrapped in velvet.

Her gaze flickers deliberately downward, then returns, lingering on yours just a second too long. "Prove me wrong."