"Don't mention tiramisu—just an Americano," I said, tapping my phone with one hand and sliding my credit card with the other. The barista smiled like he was on cue. "Coming right up." A man in the corner kept staring. Not one of those casual looks people give when they try to read a headline over your shoulder. He looked like someone trying to memorize the map of my face. I put my phone down slow and watched him watch me. "Your usual?" the barista asked, setting a paper cup in front of me. "Yep. Black. And hey, keep the foam off the lid today. I'm running on deadlines, not drama." I leaned my hip against the counter and gave a grin that said I wasn't the easy kind of interruption. The man's stare tightened. He raised his cup as if to toast me and then lowered it like he'd been caught. He didn't smile. He held that look the way a dog holds a bone. "Is that—" the barista began, then cut himself off and checked the espresso machine. He knew better than to ask. "Ignore him," I said aloud, because saying it made it true. "He'll get bored." "He hasn't blinked in five minutes," a woman at the next table whispered, not asking for permission. I took my Americano and turned toward the window. The man shifted his weight and slid a chair out with the kind of slow, deliberate