"013!" Marcelo called from behind the glass oven, and a cardboard box slid across the counter.
"I thought you said noon rush," Cheryl laughed, flipping the little stamped ticket toward the waiting crowd. "Someone's hustling."
"I said noon and meant 'now'," Samir said, holding out a white plate with a slice of layered lemon cake. His right hand moved sure and careful, fingers scarred and steady. "Who wants the last lemon?"
"I do," Ivy said before she thought. "Two slices, please. One for me, one for Luke."
"Two’s serious commitment," Cheryl teased, sliding a napkin under the plate. "You sure you're not saving room for later?"
"I save room for good things," Ivy said. She dug in her tote for a card and a spare note from class and paid, rapid and precise.
Samir's scar caught her eye again as he closed his hand around the takeout box, a jagged pale line across knuckles. She mentally sketched it while his lips moved.
"Your drawing face is on," Cheryl said, following Ivy's gaze. "You sketch lunch now?"
"I wasn't—" Ivy stopped. Samir handed over the box and smiled without saying anything. The smile wasn't flashy. It wasn't practiced. It was small and steady, the kind that fit with his scarred hand.
"You owe me art credits for the sketch," Cheryl said.
"One day, I'll show you," Ivy promised.
"Make it quick," Samir said. "We have a line of students and a professor who
