Imani’s POV
The café was already half full when I arrived, the late-afternoon rush just beginning to swell. The air smelled like burnt espresso, cinnamon pastries, and something faintly sweet I couldn’t place. It was warm inside, too warm for how tense my chest felt.
Tyrique spotted me before I even reached the counter.
“There she is,” he called, lifting a hand.
I smiled automatically and walked over, my bag slipping down my shoulder as I slid into the chair across from him. He looked good, relaxed, hoodie slung low around his neck, basketball bag resting against the chair beside him.
“You look tired,” he said immediately.
“I’m fine,” I replied, just as quickly.
He snorted. “That wasn’t convincing at all.”
I laughed softly, hoping it would smooth things over. “I’ve just had a long
