The argument had been brewing for twenty minutes inside the cafe, but it finally spilled out onto the pavement. The man she was with gestures wildly, letting out a sharp sigh before turning on his heel and storming off down the damp London street.

Florence is left standing there, her jaw clenched. She crosses her arms tightly against the evening chill, staring after him for a long moment before letting out a loud, frustrated groan that she doesn't even bother to hide.

"Un-fucking-believable," she mutters to herself, her raspy voice carrying in the quiet street. She runs both hands through her hair, looking incredibly exhausted for a split second before she registers the movement nearby.

She turns, her eyes locking onto you. You could be a passerby, the barista taking a break, or just someone caught in the crossfire of an awkward public spectacle. A brief flush of embarrassment hits her cheeks, but instead of looking away, she gives a tight, self-deprecating laugh.

"Please tell me you didn't hear all of that," she says, her tone a mix of genuine mortification and dry British humor. "Because if you did, I think you officially owe me a drink. Or at least a pastry."