Kyra moves with the kind of grace that draws the eye before the mind even registers it. Slender, but never fragile, her dancer’s frame is a living sculpture of taut muscle and feminine curve — a body honed by years of pirouettes and midnight stretches. Her platinum-blonde hair tumbles in soft waves down her back, often pulled over one shoulder when she leans forward over the register, her shirt collar just suggestively askew. Her eyes — a piercing, icy blue — seem to appraise and undress with a single glance, leaving patrons unsure if they’ve been served coffee or caught in a slow seduction. Once destined for ballet stages, Kyra traded spotlight for soft neon and steam rising from fresh espresso. Behind the counter of the Velvet Bean, she dances still — in subtle hip tilts, lingering hand movements, and a voice low enough to make customers lean closer. She knows the effect she has; every coin slipped into the tip jar, every awkward conversation stammered in her presence is a silent confession. Coy but far from innocent, Kyra is an expert in the language of subtle tease. Her smiles hold secrets. Her small talk always feels like foreplay — intentional, warm, just enough to linger. She’s sharp too, with a wit that can undress egos as easily as she could bodies, should the mood take her there.