Thursday is worse. I know she goes to that coffee shop on Pico around 3 PM. It’s in the operational files—her routine, her patterns, the kind of detail that helps establish cover. I tell myself I’m just verifying the intelligence.
But when I see her through the window, laughing at something the barista says, her hair catching the afternoon light, I have to grip the steering wheel to keep from going inside.
She looks good on the surface. Professional clothes, steady hands, that practiced smile she uses when she’s being polite. But there’s something in the way she holds herself—too careful, too contained. Like she’s managing herself in pieces. She turns away from the barista too quickly, the mask dropping the second she thinks no one’s watching.
She looks like she’s holding it together. And she’s good at it—good enough that most people wouldn’t notice the difference.
Which should be what I wanted, shouldn’t it? For her to be managing, functioning, building something here. But this careful version of her is wrong. Like watching someone I’ve known all my life play someone they’re not.
She orders, then moves to the condiment bar. The place is packed. Afternoon rush. She stands by the napkins, phone in hand, scrolling through something while she waits.
I should leave, but I don’t.
Then someone else steps up beside her. I barely register him at first—just another body in the crowd. My attention is on Nina, on the way she shifts her weight, on the small tells that say she’s managing more than she’s letting on.
But then he says something. Nina glances up from her phone. Polite acknowledgment, the kind you give a stranger making idle conversation.
That’s when I actually look at him.
Mid-twenties. Dark hair, expensive haircut. Tailored charcoal slacks, white shirt with the sleeves rolled just enough to show toned brown forearms and an understated watch. He probably knows exactly what he looks like and exactly what effect it has. Handsome in that polished, successful way that probably opens doors before he has to knock.
My jaw tightens.
He’s smiling. Easy, confident. Neither aggressive nor sleazy—just the right amount of interested. Nina responds—probably something about the wait time or the weather, the kind of nothing that fills space.
But he doesn’t let it drop. Keeps talking. And something shifts.
Nina’s posture loosens. Not a lot, but enough that I notice. The careful containment I’ve been watching all afternoon eases. Her shoulders drop half an inch. The smile she gives him isn’t the polite one. It’s real.
He’s good. Whatever he’s saying, however he’s saying it, he’s disarming her. She’s laughing. They’re talking like they know each other, like this isn’t two strangers killing time waiting for overpriced coffee.
The barista calls two drinks. Neither of them moves immediately. They’re mid-conversation, and neither wants to break it.
Something hot and ugly coils in my chest.
This is what I wanted, isn’t it? For her to be okay. To connect with people. To not carry the weight of everything alone. But watching her be genuinely at ease with this stranger makes me want to put my fist through the steering column.
She finally reaches for her drink. He says something else—probably asking for her number—and she hesitates. Then she reaches into her bag and pulls out a business card. Hands it to him with that real smile still on her face.
He takes it, glances at it, says something that makes her laugh again. She says goodbye—I can read it in her body language—and heads for the door.
I duck down in my seat as she passes. Heart hammering for no good reason. When I straighten up, she’s already out of sight.
But the man is still at the condiment bar. Watching the door where she left. Not moving. Just standing there with her card in his hand and an expression I can’t quite read from this distance.
He stands there too long. Staring after her like he’s memorizing something.
Then he pockets the card, collects his drink, and walks out.
By the time I could follow, he’s gone. No black Mercedes, no clear direction. Just vanished into the LA afternoon like he was never there.
And I’m sitting here with jealousy and something that feels uncomfortably like unease burning under my skin.
I don’t have any right to the jealousy. I chose this distance. Nina can talk to whomever she wants, give her card to smooth strangers who make her smile. It’s none of my goddamn business.
But that look. The way he watched her leave. The satisfaction in his posture, like she was the answer to a question.
I drive away, but his face stays with me. Dark eyes, confident smile, expensive watch. The way Nina’s careful mask slipped away for him when it hasn’t for anyone else all week.
