As I trailed behind him outside, my mind couldn’t shake the image of that tattoo. I made a mental note to ask him about it later.
We sat across from each other at a quaint glass table in a cozy breakfast nook that offered a breathtaking view, overlooking the water.
Domino poured two steaming cups of coffee from a carafe without a word, sliding one toward me.
“Drink,” he commanded lightly, a charming glint in his eyes. “It’s strong.”
“Thank you.”
I took a sip and winced, caught off guard by the boldness of it.
“Whew! You weren’t lying. It's strong, but good.”
“Only the best,” he bragged.
“Question... how did you know I like my coffee black?"
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, but he quickly curtailed it. “You don’t strike me as a sugar-and-cream type.”
I lifted a brow. “You don’t know me like that.”
“Not yet,” he replied, a teasing lilt in his voice.
We settled into an unexpected silence, each of us studying the other.
“So,” he finally broke the quiet, folding his hands on the table. “You ever been out of the country before?”
“No… first time.”
He nodded slightly, his expression momentarily softening. “You settling in okay?”
I shrugged. “So, so. All of this still feels so unreal.” I hesitated before blurted out, “Why do you always look so mean?”
He blinked, clearly caught off guard by the unexpected question. “Mean?”
“Yes,” I insisted, pointing at his face as if his expression could be analyzed like a chart. “You look like you wake up mad at the air, like the world has done you a disservice.”
A low chuckle escaped him, surprising me. “I look mean because I have to.”
"Have to?” I retorted, trying to grasp the logic in what he was saying.
“If you look soft, people will think you are, and in my line of work, that gets you tested,” he explained, a hint of seriousness threading through his tone.
“So you just… wear the face?”
He nodded. “Every day. Keeps folks from trying me.”
I took a moment to study him, searching for something beneath the stoicism.
“I think beneath that hard face is probably a really thoughtful man… maybe even a good one,” I ventured, hopeful that there was more to him than what met the eye.
At my words, his eyes darkened slightly. “You don’t know what you talkin’ 'bout."
“Maybe not,” I conceded, “but I’m usually good at reading people.” My voice held a hint of confidence as I held his gaze.
He shook his head slowly, like my words entertained him more than they should have.
“People like me ain’t meant to be read; we’re meant to be feared.”
