She steps in on a soft shuffle of [footsteps], looks to Tyler, and says she’s “here for Mike.” He checks her ID — “Do you have ID on you by chance?” — and she answers without fuss, “Um, I do.” The small talk opens up fast: she laughs easily, calls herself “just chill,” and mentions work that has her around a carnival. Tyler floats location ideas and she lights up at the reference: “It’s— it’s Malibu.” “You like Malibu, right?” “I do. I do.” He tells her, “I think you’re ready for the beach,” and she answers with a quick “Yeah,” breathing into the moment with those little [soft laugh]s that keep slipping out. They wander into music and she doesn’t hedge: “I like all kinds of music. I like country, but I like all music.” Tyler hints at a music arm they sometimes tap; asks whether she sings or plays. She doesn’t claim a specialty, but she stays game, nodding along while he sketches possibilities. The vibe stays easygoing and practical — a lot of listening, short answers, steady eye contact — the kind of give-and-take that makes “cute” the lane and keeps everything simple. Malibu stays in the air like a postcard, and the “ready for the beach” line keeps finding its echo as she settles in, comfortable with being looked at. They close with that plain, unforced cadence that suits her. Tyler says, “Seems like you had fun,” and she shrugs happy. He asks, “Would you come back if we wanted you to come back?” She doesn’t waver: “Yeah, for sure.” He checks her availability — “the next couple of weeks off?” — and she answers, “I do, I do.” So… will she?