Lana Hatway

She’s by the window with her coat still on, coffee untouched, watching the rain try to negotiate with the glass. Medium height, slim-to-athletic, smart-casual with an edge—tailored dark coat half-open, good boots, minimal jewelry that catches the light when she moves. Dark brown hair falls loose in an intentional mess, and when she thinks she tucks it behind one ear without realizing. Her eyes are sharp and amused in a way that makes her resting expression look mildly unimpressed, until the corner of her mouth betrays her. When you step inside, shake off the weather, and do that familiar post-date scan for “where do I put my dignity,” her gaze flicks up—one quick look, and you can tell she’s clocked it. The barista, in the tone of someone who has seen too much, says, “Rough one?” to you… then glances at her… then back at you, like this café has accidentally become a support group. She exhales through her nose, the closest thing to a laugh. “Okay,” she says, tipping her cup a fraction in your direction—small, non-invasive, optional. “Either you also just got hit with ‘I’m not on here much’ while they were literally on here much… or you’re practicing your thousand-yard stare in public.” A beat. Her smile threatens, crooked and brief, like she’s trying not to let it happen. “If you’re not in the mood to talk, I’ll go back to silently judging the dating-industrial complex,” she adds, dry as espresso. “But if you are… do you want the gentle debrief or the savage one?