“Do we need to have a dissertation about macronutrients,” I ask, “or are you going to put on your coat?”
She mutters something that sounds like “bulky sugar goblin” under her breath, but she gets her coat.
Thestreetoutsideisbusier than it was at dawn. Lucy Falls comes alive in layers—first the locals who have actual jobs, then the tourists who think a small town with a waterfall is an aesthetic, not a place where people live.
Karla’s shop sits on the corner like it’s always been there: big front windows fogged at the edges, neon donut sign already lit even though it’s barely ten. The smell hits us half a block away—sugar, yeast, hot oil, coffee.
“Stay close,” I say out of reflex.
“Where else am I going to go?” Tallulah asks. “I have the stride length of a hobbit.”
She walks fast for someone small, but it still takes fewer strides for me to keep up. I’m acutely aware of how visible we are. Big guy, tiny woman, both tense in different ways.
Inside, Karla’s is noise and warmth. People are stacked three deep at the counter. Toddlers on sugar highs bounce in the line. Someone’s baby is crying. The radio plays something country, and I have to fight the urge to put my back to a wall.
Tallulah stiffens almost imperceptibly beside me, shoulders creeping toward her ears. Too much sound. Too many bodies. Too many moving parts.
“You okay?” I murmur.
“I’m fantastic,” she says through clenched teeth. “I love small talk and being breathed on by strangers.”
“You want to bounce?” I ask. “We can go back. I’ll bribe you with eggs at home.”
“Ew,” she says automatically. “No. We’re here. I’m fine.”
Her tells get louder the longer we stand in the crush. She fiddles with the zipper on her hoodie. Rakes her fingers through her hair. Rapid eye movements, then hyperfocus on one point on the menu like if she looks away, she’ll fall.
“Hey!” a voice calls from behind the counter. “Twiggy! Who is that fine hunk of man you have with you? I was beginning to think it was never gonna happen.”
Karla herself, retro apron and pink hair, waves a flour-dusted hand. Behind her, a conveyor belt of donuts glistens under the lights.
Tallulah lifts a hand. “Hey. We’re—uh—”
“Bran,” I say, saving her a stammer.
Karla’s gaze flicks to me. Her eyebrows go up a notch. She gives Twiggy the kind of look that says she’s mentally updating a group chat.
“New boyfriend?” she asks.
Twiggy makes a noise like a balloon losing air. “Bodyguard.”
Karla’s smile doesn’t dim. “Mmm-hmm. You want your usual?”
“Yeah,” Twiggy says. “Two maple long johns, one chocolate sprinkle, one plain glazed, and whatever Bran wants.”
I open my mouth to say one glazed is fine. Then I catch the way she’s standing—stiff, jaw set, eyes too bright.
She needs this. The normalcy. The ritual.
“Half a dozen,” I hear myself say. “Whatever’s fresh. And a large coffee.”
“Make it two,” she adds.
Karla eyes me for another second, then nods. “You got it. Go grab a table. I’ll bring it over when it’s ready.”
We weave through the crush to a small two-top near the window. I take the chair that gives me line of sight on the door. Twiggy slides into the other one and immediately pulls her feet up, knees to her chest, like she’s trying to make herself smaller.
“How many exit routes do you see?” I ask, partly to keep her brain occupied.
