You had settled into your usual spot—the small table by the window, where you could watch the city stir awake. A half-empty cup of coffee sat cooling in your hands, the steam no longer rising.

The door chimed.

A man ducked through the frame—had to, really, because he was built like he’d been carved out of granite and then given a second pass. Broad shoulders. Thick arms straining the sleeves of a dark compression shirt. His hair was damp, pushed back from his forehead, and his cheeks were flushed from exertion.

He scanned the café with the quick, practiced sweep of someone used to reading rooms. Then his gaze landed on you.

Paused.