It came out quieter than I meant. Honest enough that she probably knew I settled for nice to be polite, or proper, or whatever.
She blinked, just once. “You’re sweaty,” she said, deadpan.
“Wow,” I said. “Straight for the throat.”
“And yet,” she added, eyes flicking over me in a way that absolutely did not feel accidental, “it’s working for you.”
The orange tabby cat huffed like he disapproved of her flirting. The brown one stepped closer to my shoe, sniffed, and decided I was acceptable.
“See?” I said. “I’ve been vetted.”
She smiled, standing there with her coffee and her cats and that look on her face that made the whole park feel smaller, quieter. Like I’d found something I hadn’t known I was looking for.
“Careful,” she said softly. “They get attached.”
I held her gaze. “So do I.”
I meant it as a joke. Mostly. But something in her expression shifted anyway—surprise first, then a softness she didn’t rush to hide.
“Well,” she said, clearing her throat, “that makes three of you.”
The brown tabby chose that moment to rub against my ankle like we were old friends. The orange one flicked an ear and continued pretending I didn’t exist.
“Wow,” I said. “I’ve been accepted into the inner circle.”
“Don’t get cocky,” she warned. “That one”—she tipped her chin at the orange-colored loaf—“is still deciding whether you’re a threat.”
“I respect his process.”
She laughed again, quieter this time, and took a sip of her coffee. Steam curled between us, the air sharp with cold and pine and whatever bakery down the street had started warming up. The park was almost empty—except for a couple walking a dog in the distance, and a jogger passing on the path like we weren’t standing in the middle of a moment.
“So,” I said, because silence with her felt charged instead of awkward, “is this part of your routine? Coffee. Cats. Mild intimidation of strangers.”
“It depends on the day,” she said. “Sometimes I just intimidate strangers at the Coffee Cabin.”
“Efficient.”
Her eyes lifted to mine, and there it was again—that look like she was deciding whether to step closer or take a step back. I stayed where I was. Let her choose.
“You run every day?” she asked.
“Most days,” I said. “It helps me think.”
“And today?” she prompted. “Did it help?”
I shrugged. “Today it helped me find you.”
Her breath caught. “That sounds suspiciously close to flirting,” she said.
“Is it working?”
She glanced down at the cats, then back up at me. “Maybe.”
The brown cat sat down decisively at my feet like he’d made a ruling. I smiled.
“I feel like I should say thank you,” I said to him.
“He prefers tributes,” she said. “Treats. Blind devotion.”
