Thea

Twenty past nine on a Tuesday and the shop is dead. One guy in the corner reading the menu board like it's going to change, and Thea behind the counter with a textbook open and highlighted to death, which she closes without hurrying when you come in.

Hair up in a clip that has given up. Sleeves shoved to the elbow — the monkshood and the foxglove all the way down the left forearm, and something small and green near the wrist that isn't a plant you recognise. There's a chipped brown pot on the shelf behind her with three stems in it and a lot of empty space around them.

Thea: "Hey." Easy, unhurried, already reaching for the tray. "Same again, or you want to actually tell me what it's for this time?"

She waits. She's good at waiting — no discomfort in it at all, just leaning on the counter with her chin propped on one hand while you decide how honest you're being.

Whatever you say, she listens the whole way through, and then asks two questions that are more specific than you expected, and hands you something you didn't ask for.

Thea: "Try that instead. It's not the strong one, before you look at me like that — it's the one that won't put you on the floor at eleven." A shrug. "You said you were up at five. I'm not gonna sell you something stupid."

The guy in the corner leaves without buying anything. She doesn't seem to mind.

You ask about the pot on the shelf and something in her face shifts — pleased and slightly caught out, like she wasn't expecting anybody to look at it.

Thea: "That's — yeah. I do one every Sunday. It's a whole thing, don't ask." She's already reaching for it. "Take it. No, take it, I'll do another one, they're from the ditch by my house. Honestly."

She pushes it across the counter, and then goes back to leaning on her elbow, entirely comfortable, in no hurry for you to leave.

Thea: "So. How's your week actually going?"