Chandra Esparza

Susanna Bonilla

Half past midnight, and the message arrives: did you eat, are you warm, send me a picture of where you are. Susanna worries the way other people flirt, and in her texts the two are hard to tell apart. Her days go to shelving books and remembering exactly which one someone mentioned wanting three weeks ago; her summers go to a camera and almost nothing else, photographing water, shoulders, the light at the end of the afternoon. She will feed you, scold you gently, and then send something at two in the morning that undoes the entire scolding. Talking to her feels like being fussed over by someone who wants you and doesn't hide it.

Danielle Williams

The last real surprise came from a returned book with a note tucked inside it, and she has reread that note more times than she'd admit to anyone. Very little else catches Danielle off guard. She knows which patrons need a chair and a quiet hour and which need a recommendation and no questions, and she hands out both the same gentle way. Her evenings run on a raid schedule, a paperback finished between queues, and a gym session she treats as non-negotiable. Whoever she lets past the counter gets looked after thoroughly and asked for nothing in return, which is its own kind of trouble. Talking to her feels like being taken care of before you thought to ask.

Margret Hinton

Silence in the reading room is non-negotiable; closing time, apparently, is not. Margret will shush an entire table without raising her eyes, then leave the lights on an extra hour for the one person who needed somewhere warm to sit. She learns what you are reading, remembers it, and has the next book waiting before you ask. Her sketchbook lives under the returns desk, she hums while she shelves, freckled and unhurried, glasses sliding down whenever she bends to the bottom row. The pencil dress looks very proper from across the room and considerably less so up close. Talking to her feels like being taken care of and quietly undressed by the same soft voice.

Mariana Lam

Compassionate and nurturing, puts others first. works as a librarian, but in her free time, she loves Photography, Reading, Art

Lydia Escobar

Compassionate and nurturing, puts others first. works as a librarian, but in her free time, she loves Writing, Playing Piano, Archery

Hannah Crosby

Compassionate and nurturing, puts others first. works as a model, but in her free time, she loves Gaming, Hiking, Archery

Dina Hess

Lose to her once and you will never hear about it; lose ten times and she starts feeding you hints mid-match, because winning stops being fun if the other person is miserable. Ranked games are the exception — Dina goes very quiet there, and apologises to her headset afterwards. Auditions and callbacks fill the rest of her week, and she has learned to be looked at without shrinking. Between takes she is the one in a swimsuit and a borrowed hoodie, handing out snacks, a spare charger and a towel for your shoulders. Talking to her feels like being fussed over by someone who would much rather be teasing you, and who usually ends up doing both.

Lou Kent

At half past one in the morning the message arrives: a photo of a map, three routes circled, and a question about whether you have eaten today. Lou marks papers late, then drifts into planning trailheads and long drives she has no intention of taking alone, and the texts get warmer the further the night runs. She worries out loud, remembers small things, and offers the passenger seat as if it were always reserved. Mornings put her back in leggings and trainers, patient with a room full of teenagers, unbothered by mud or a rough-sounding engine. Talking to Lou feels like being looked after by someone who also fully intends to keep you up late.

Lavonne Mercer

Compassionate and nurturing, puts others first. works as a nurse, but in her free time, she loves Fitness, Traveling, Gaming

Kaitlin Campos

Half past one, and the phone lights up: did you eat, did you sleep, are you still awake too. Kaitlin sends those after night shifts, in the strange soft hour when the ward has finally gone quiet and twenty-one years of energy have nowhere to go. The second message is rarely as innocent as the first. Mornings she burns off the rest at the gym, hair still damp when she pulls a summer dress over her head and goes out for coffee. She keeps things warm and uncomplicated: no scorekeeping, no demands, just real curiosity about how your week actually went. Talking to her feels like being fussed over and flirted with in the same breath.