I pretend not to notice the foam mustache it gives her.
Fail completely.
“Stop staring,” she mutters without looking up.
“Can’t help it,” I say. “You’re fascinating.”
She chokes, then glares. “You’re impossible.”
“You say that like it’s a flaw.”
The café’s courtyard bustles. Drones hover just overhead, capturing angles for some influencer’s live stream. Tourists stumble past, arguing over map coordinates and where to find the best alley noodle stall. A trio of street kids break into a choreographed dance routine near the recycling bins.
And amidst it all, she looks… calm.
Not jumpy. Not braced for impact. Just… present.
I lean back, letting my arm drape over the back of her chair casually. Not touching. Just close. My palm itches to close the gap. She hasn’t flinched once today.
That’s progress.
“Sable.”
“Hm?”
“You’ve got whipped cream on your nose.”
She wipes her upper lip with the back of her hand. “Liar.”
“I would never lie. I would omit. I would mislead. I would exaggerate with flair. But I wouldn’t lie. Especially not to you.”
She rolls her eyes and grabs a napkin.
I sit in silence for a beat, pretending to study a nearby awning.
But I’m not pretending to notice the tail.
He’s good. Almost good enough to fool a civilian. Slim build. Neutral clothes. Gray compad up, angled like he’s browsing headlines—but he hasn’t swiped once in five minutes. His eyes flick toward us every seven seconds.
Seven is a tactical mistake.
Most people check a crowd every five or ten.
Only trained eyes scan on the odd numbers.
Sable doesn’t notice.
Good.
I shift my weight, reaching for a half-eaten pastry on our table—a circular vanilla thing with a caramel core. My fingers brush a rock beneath the table’s edge. Not a big one. Just heavy enough. Rounded. Good weight distribution.
He’s still pretending to scroll.
I calculate wind resistance, trajectory, timing.
I throw.
The rock sails in a clean arc, bounces off a chair leg, ricochets—clack—right into the edge of the tail’s compad.
