Hanna takes a sip of her black coffee. "Riley says you're renting from Captain Delano."
"The in-law suite," I tell her. "Separate entrance, great location, my landlord only glares at me approximately sixty percent of the time. Real win."
Riley snorts into her latte. Hanna doesn't smile. Just keeps watching me with those assessing eyes.
Micah appears at our table with a mug. "Your usual," he says, sliding it to me. "With an extra shot. You look like you need it."
I wrap my hands around the warm ceramic. "That obvious?" I ask.
"Oat milk latte, two shots, honey instead of sugar, cinnamon on top. You've ordered it twelve times. I pay attention." He says it matter-of-factly, like everyone memorizes their customers' coffee preferences.
"Small towns," Riley says, grinning. "No privacy, but the coffee's good."
Micah returns to the counter. Hanna's still watching me.
"So," I say brightly, "what brought you to Copper Ridge? Riley, I mean. Not Hanna. Although Hanna, what brought you here? To visit? Or to check out the station? Both are great reasons. Copper Ridge is very check-out-able."
Hanna sets down her coffee. "You do that a lot?" she asks.
"Do what?" I say.
"Talk at people instead of talking to them," Hanna says. "Fill every silence with words so nobody has room to ask questions."
The smile stays fixed on my face through sheer muscle memory. "I'm just friendly," I tell her. "Paramedics are supposed to be friendly. Bedside manner and all that."
"You're faking it," Hanna says calmly. She takes another sip of coffee. "It's impressive, but I can see the seams."
My breath goes shallow. The smile wavers.
Riley's watching me with gentle eyes. Not pitying. Just understanding.
"Hanna's direct," Riley says. "It's one of her more charming qualities."
"I don't have time for bullshit," Hanna says, not unkindly. "Life's too short."
There's a story in that sentence. I don't ask about it. Something in the way she said it makes me think she's been on the receiving end of too many people who did.
"Fair enough," I say, and let the sunshine drop a few degrees. "I'm Gemma. I moved here to stop burning out. I'm currently avoiding my landlord because his six-year-old asked me if I'm his girlfriend and I panicked and helped her find a T-Rex tooth instead of answering."
Hanna considers this. "Did she find a good one?" she asks.
"Really excellent premolar region," I say.
Something shifts in Hanna's expression --- not a smile exactly, but the suggestion of one. "Then you handled it correctly."
Riley is grinning into her latte hard enough to strain something.
We stay for another hour. By the time I'm zipping up my jacket to leave, Hanna and I have established a provisional détente based on mutual appreciation for direct communication and an unwillingness to pretend things are fine when they aren't. It's the least sunshine-adjacent friendship I've ever started. I think I like her.
Beck's still at a corner table when I pass on my way out, phone in one hand, to-go cup in the other, the particular tension in his shoulders that means he's doing something work-related on his day off. He sets the phone face-down on the table when he hears me coming --- a small, deliberate thing --- and looks up.
"See you around, Lockhart," he says. "It's your turn to buy the cat food."
"Clarence freeloads off both of us," I point out. "He's a democratic opportunist."
That almost-smile crosses his jaw. It's barely there, gone before it fully arrives, but my hand tightens on my jacket zipper without permission. I push out through the door before I can do anything embarrassing, like stand there cataloging the exact shape of an expression that's probably just a muscle twitch.
It is definitely a muscle twitch.
