For a moment, neither of them spoke.

  The café hummed around them—low conversation, espresso hissing, spoons tapping ceramic—but at their small table, silence gathered easily.

  Seraphine tipped her head, studying him with quiet curiosity, the way someone might gauge the sky before deciding whether rain was coming.

  “You look tired, Detective,” she said.

  Elias lifted a brow.

  “You can tell?”

  She lifted her hand and traced a small circle beneath her own eye.

  “Eyebags.”

  He let out a short, humorless chuckle.

  “Yeah. Just—work.”

  She hummed in acknowledgement, a soft sympathetic sound that expected nothing more.

  “And you?” he asked.

  “How’s school?”

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  Seraphine gave a light shrug.

  “Still noisy. But I’m getting used to it.”

  Her book unfolded again with a gentle snap, the gesture neat and practiced. Elias couldn’t tell if the conversation was over or simply resting.

  He took another sip of his coffee, the bitter warmth steadying him, and let his gaze drift to the title on the cover.

  Human Behavior: Patterns and Deviations.

  Of course.

  “What degree did you take?” he asked.

  “Psychology.”

  He nodded once.

  “Ah.”

  There was something fitting about that.

  “You like that book?” he prodded lightly.

  “It’s fun,” she said, matter-of-fact.

  “It helps me with my studies.”

  She brought her cup to her lips, sipping as if time moved slower for her.

  Elias meant to look away, to stare into his coffee or at the window or anywhere else, but his eyes betrayed him—drawn to the shape of her mouth.

  Soft pink.

  No gloss.

  No paint.

  Just naturally curved, the kind of mouth people remembered without meaning to.

  Not large, not narrow.

  Not striking.

  Just balanced.

  Just right.

  A mouth that left a print the mind couldn’t unsee.

  He realized he’d lingered too long a second before she spoke.

  “Don’t be too obvious, Detective,” Seraphine murmured, eyes still on her book.

  Heat pricked at the back of his neck.

  His muscles tightened.

  He turned his gaze away so abruptly the tendons in his neck protested.

  When she finally looked up, her eyes had deepened—still calm, still unreadable, but holding something that made the space between them feel suddenly smaller.

  “I—apologize,” he said, clearing his throat.

  Her lips curved, the faintest, smallest smile.

  Not warm.

  Not teasing.

  Just acknowledging.

  Then she turned a page and lowered her gaze again, as if nothing at all unusual had passed between them.

  The silence returned—comfortable, somehow—and held.