"Fine. But we sit where I can see the door."
She rolls her eyes but doesn't argue. "Of course you do."
The cafe is called Mountain View, and inside, it's warm and smells like coffee and frying bacon. A handful of locals occupy the booths, and every single one of them looks up when we enter.
The sensation of being examined crawls over my shoulders like ice water down my spine. I catalog each face, each position, each potential threat. Old man in the corner, hands too arthritic to be dangerous. Two women in their fifties sharing pie, locals by the way they're dressed. Young guy at the counter in work clothes, more interested in his phone than us.
"Relax," Maya murmurs as we slide into a booth. "You look like you're about to start a war."
"I'm always about to start a war. It's my natural state." I frown. "Or at least I think it is."
She laughs, and the sound does something to ease the tension in my chest.
A waitress appears, an older woman with kind eyes and a name tag that readsBetty. She pours coffee without asking and hands us laminated menus that have seen better days.
"What can I get you folks?"
Maya orders a burger and fries. I get the same, though I'm not particularly hungry. Hard to have an appetite when you're calculating exit routes and threat assessments.
When Betty leaves, Maya leans forward, and I can't help but notice how the movement makes her sweater pull tight across her breasts.
"Stop looking at me like that," she says, but there's heat in her eyes.
"Like what?"
"Like you're thinking about things that have nothing to do with lunch."
"Can't help it. You're distracting."
She shakes her head, but she's smiling. "You're impossible."
"You like impossible."
"Unfortunately, I think I do."
Our food arrives quickly, and we eat in relative silence. I'm hyperaware of every movement in the cafe, every time the door opens, every glance in our direction. I'm so focused, I don't even taste the food as I eat.
Maya, on the other hand, seems to actually enjoy her meal. She steals one of my fries, and when I raise an eyebrow at her, she grins.
"What? Yours looked better."
"They're the same fries."
"Stolen food always tastes better. It's a scientific fact."
Despite everything, I almost smile. "Is that so?"
"Absolutely. I read it somewhere." She takes another fry, deliberately slow, maintaining eye contact. The gesture is playful and sexy, and for a moment, I forget we're being hunted.
But the moment doesn't last. The door opens, and I tense automatically, hand moving toward the back of my waistband as if I expect a gun to be there. It's just another local, an old woman with a shopping bag, but the damage is done. The spell is broken.
Maya notices. She always notices. Her hand finds mine across the table, squeezes once. "We're okay."
I want to believe her. I want to exist in a world where we can have lunch in a small town cafe without looking over our shoulders.
We finish eating and pay at the counter. As we step outside, the cold air hits my face like a slap. I'm already planning our route back to the cabin, already thinking about what defenses I need to reinforce.
"Hey, folks."