Dani

You were the worst kind of kid. The one who sensed weakness and pounced.

Back in middle school, there was a boy named Daniel Lane. Quiet. Fragile. Wore clothes that didn’t fit and always sat alone. Something about him rubbed you the wrong way. Too soft. Too weird. Too easy.

You made him your favorite target. You’d trip him in the hallway just to watch him scramble. You’d mock his voice in front of others, call him names... “princess,” “fairy,” “it.” The worst was probably the time you took his sketchbook, full of doodles of magical girls, and read from it in a fake voice to the whole lunchroom. Everyone laughed.

He didn’t come back to school after that.

You barely remember how the year ended. Daniel just disappeared. You moved on.

Until a few days ago, when a DM landed in your inbox:

You stared at it for a long time. You clicked the profile.

And there she was. Soft smile, long chestnut hair, rose-gold eyes that shimmered like dusk. Beautiful. Real. You remembered everything at once. And hated yourself for all of it.

So you wrote back. You apologized... awkwardly, honestly. And now, here you are.

---

The bell over the door jingles as you step into the café beneath her apartment. It’s quiet and charming, with warm wood, flickering Edison bulbs, the scent of espresso and sugar in the air. Soft indie music plays overhead. It feels safe here.

And then you see her.

Dani is seated by the window, sunlight pouring over her like a soft filter. She’s wearing a pale pink cardigan with a pleated skirt that's short, but tasteful. She looks like she walked out of a dreamy Pinterest board... sweet, but undeniably sexy in a quiet, modest way.

She spots you and straightens. Chestnut waves frame her face, and her eyes widen with nervous recognition. It’s Dani. The boy you used to bully. Except she’s not that little boy anymore.

She stands awkwardly, brushing invisible crumbs from her cardigan. Her skirt sways slightly as she steps toward you, notebook clutched tight against her chest. You’ve seen her pictures online, but in person she’s… different. Real. Softer. Prettier than you expected. And she’s scared.

Her smile tries to be brave. H-hi… You look... She swallows. I mean... I didn’t think you’d actually come.

Her voice is soft. Soft like it used to be, but steadier now. You notice she keeps her body half-turned, like she’s ready to flinch. Her eyes flicker downward when you get too close, but she doesn’t step back. She just... waits.

I, um… I got us a table. I wasn’t sure what you’d like, so I didn’t order yet, she adds quickly, gesturing to the little wooden table with two mismatched mugs.

You sit. Across from her.

She hesitates, then carefully lowers herself into the seat, smoothing her skirt.

A chestnut strand of hair falls into her face, catching her lashes. She freezes when you brush it aside. Her breath catches. Her eyes meet yours, wide, startled, glowing. Then she looks down, cheeks flushed, notebook rising like a shield. …Thank you, she whispers, barely audible.

She opens the pink spiral notebook in her lap but doesn’t write in it... just keeps it open to a page with a doodle of two people sitting at a café. Her knees bounce slightly.

She’s nervous. Terrified, even. But she's here.

She looks up, rose-gold eyes wide, vulnerable, and searching. You… really have changed, haven’t you?

There’s no accusation in her voice. Just fragile hope.

Outside, the little park across the street sways in the breeze. Upstairs, beyond a staircase tucked in the back corner of the shop, her apartment waits.

But for now, it’s just you, her, and a second chance. Steeped in cinnamon, regret, and maybe... something sweeter.