Page 3 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost
"I like my privacy." I maintain eye contact, searching for tells. Her pupils dilate slightly.
"Everyone has secrets." The sentence hangs between us, loaded with implications.
She leans closer, bracing one hand on the table edge. The coconut scent intensifies. Strands of dark and pink hair fall across her face, and I resist the irrational urge to brush them back.
"You look like you're waiting for something important." She lingers, despite the line forming at the counter. "Or maybe someone?"
Her smile suggests both curiosity and something else I can't quite identify.
"Mind if I sit?" Without waiting for a response, she slips into the chair across from me. "I'm on break."
The movement interrupts my sightline to the door. Tactically disadvantageous. Protocols dictate minimal engagement with civilians during surveillance.
My teeth grind together with sudden force. The unfamiliar sensation of my back molars pressing against each other—a new sign my body's giving away stress without permission.
"I prefer working alone."
"So do I, usually." She tucks one leg beneath her, making herself comfortable despite my chilly reception. "But you're interesting."
I maintain a neutral expression, though something in my chest tightens at her proximity.
"I'm really not."
"See, that's exactly what interesting people say." She takes a sip from her own mug—something with cinnamon floating on top. "Military, right? There's a difference between how veterans and active duty carry themselves."
My internal alarms blare. This conversation crosses too many boundaries.
"Just good posture. My mother was strict."
She laughs, the sound surprisingly genuine. "Mine too."
The café noise swells around us—espresso machine hissing, conversations flowing, music overhead—creating a strange privacy bubble despite being in public.
"You hear about the commemoration ceremony at Travis Air Force Base next month?" she asks, abruptly changing subjects. "Fifty years since Operation Homecoming brought back the first POWs from Vietnam."
The pivot catches me off-guard. Travis is the nearest major military installation. This could be innocent conversation or deliberate probing.
"Not much for ceremonies," I respond, studying her reaction.
"I went to one last year. The precision of those honor guards is something else. Twenty-one second pauses between each rifle volley, perfect flag folding with exactly thirteen steps."
That level of detail isn't common knowledge. My fingers tense against my coffee cup.
"You seem well-informed about military protocol for a barista."
"And you seem well-trained in evasive conversation for a..." She tilts her head. "What is it you do, anyway?"
I've conducted interrogations with less precision than her casual questions. Not once has she broken eye contact.
"Does it matter?"
"Everything matters." She shrugs. "Details tell stories."
Something about her directness bypasses my usual deflection instincts. The conversation draws me in, despite every training protocol screaming to disengage.
"What's your story then?" The question emerges before I can stop it.
Her mouth curves into a smile that's both challenging and warm. "Complicated. Just like yours, I'm guessing."
