Page 18 of Born in Fire

“Family heirloom.” I hold it up, the silver dragon catching the light. “Superstition says it brings good fortune in business dealings.”

“And does it?”

“I’m here with you, aren’t I?” The line slips out automatically, smooth as silk.

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile. “That’s your practiced line, isn’t it? The one that usually works.”

I blink, genuinely surprised. Women don’t typically call me on my bullshit. “Was it that obvious?”

“Let’s just say I’ve developed an ear for sincerity versus performance.” Something flickers in her expression—a shadow of old pain. “My turn. What do you really want to know about me?”

Our drinks arrive, giving me a moment to consider. I could ask about her past, why she flinches slightly when I move too quickly, why she chose to meet me here instead of letting me pick her up for our date. But instinct tells me to tread carefully.

“Why coffee?” I ask instead. “Is it just a job, or is there more to it?”

The question surprises her. She takes a sip of her drink, considering.

“I love the ritual of it,” she finally says. “The precision, the creativity. Each cup is both science and art.” Her fingers trace patterns on the condensation of her glass. “And I like creating something that brings people small moments of pleasure.”

“The latte art,” I observe. “You’re good at it.”

“I’m getting better. Still can’t nail a rose design.” She leans forward slightly, eyes brightening. “I bet you couldn’t do it either.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“Absolutely. I’ll let you behind the counter sometime, and we’ll see who makes the better latte art.”

The casual mention of “sometime” settles in my chest like warmth. She’s assuming we’ll see each other again.

“Deal,” I say. “Though I should warn you, I’m very competitive.”

“So am I.” Her smile is the first unreserved one I’ve seen, and it leaves me speechless for a second before I gather my wits.

The conversation flows easier after that. We discuss Seattle landmarks, debate the best viewpoint in the city (she argues for Kerry Park, I maintain the water taxi to Bainbridge offers superior views), and discover a shared appreciation for obscure jazz. She becomes animated when talking about art, her hands gesturing expressively, her voice taking on a richness that makes me lean closer.

I find myself genuinely engaged, not faking interest but feeling it. When she laughs at something I’ve said—really laughs, head thrown back—I experience a surge of satisfaction so intense it startles me.

The sky darkens, city lights blinking on like earthbound stars. Our charcuterie board is demolished, our second round of drinks nearly finished. I’ve learned she prefers mountains to beaches, believes espresso should never touch ice, hates white clothing because it makes her think of hospitals, and can name every major constellation. But I still know nothing about her past, her family beyond her astronomer parents, or why caution edges her every movement.

A group of drunk businessmen enters, one of them staggering too close to our table. His shoulder bumps Juno’s chair, and she tenses immediately. Before I can think, I’m half out of my seat, a growl building in my throat.

The man mutters an apology and moves on, but the moment lingers. I slowly sit back down, confused by my reaction. I’ve never been the jealous type, never felt this immediate, primitive need to protect.

“Everything okay?” Juno asks, studying me.

“Fine,” I say, rolling my shoulders to dispel the tension. “Just not a fan of drunk idiots.”

She checks her watch. “I should probably head home. Early shift tomorrow.”

Disappointment hits harder than it should. “Let me walk you.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Humor me.” I signal for the check. “Just to your building. I promise to be a perfect gentleman.”

She hesitates, then nods. “To the corner of my street. Not all the way to my building.”

Another boundary. Clear, non-negotiable.

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