NICK
The small café at the corner of the avenue smelled of burnt sugar and expensive steam.
Lila sat across from me, watching the barista with a sharp, impatient focus while she waited for her order.
When it arrived, it was exactly what I expected... something layered, excessively sweet, and topped with a mountain of whipped cream that had absolutely no structural reason to be there.
I looked down at my own cup. Black coffee, a single splash of cold milk. No sugar. I stirred it once, the metal spoon clicking cleanly against the ceramic, purely to give my fingers something to do while the noise of the café settled around us.
Lila didn't bother with the usual preambles.
She simply leaned forward, her bracelets clinking against the dark wood of the table.
"You've been avoiding me," she said. It wasn't an accusation; it was a statement of fact, delivered with the absolute confidence of a woman who was used to tracking people down for a living.
