"Coffee?" she asks, already reaching for the cup on my table.
"Please."
Her hands are steady as she pours, but there's something about the deliberate control of her movements that speaks to someone who's learned to function despite pain. Physical pain, emotional pain, probably both.
"I haven't seen you here before," she observes, setting the coffee pot aside and pulling out a small notepad. Not quite an accusation, but definitely an assessment. She's cataloging me the same way I'm cataloging her—looking for signs of threat or safety.
"First time," I confirm. "Someone recommended the breakfast. Said it was worth the drive."
A small smile touches the corners of her mouth, and for a moment, she looks like what she should be: a normal teenager working a weekend job, proud of her workplace. But even the smile has an edge to it, like she's testing whether I'm the kind of customer who'll be satisfied with pleasantries or if I'm looking for something else.
"Rosie makes incredible pancakes," she says, her tone warming slightly. "The hash browns are perfect if you like them crispy. The eggs Benedict is popular too, though I think it's a little fancy for a place like this."
There's something charming about her honesty, the way she's willing to admit that her workplace isn't sophisticated while still taking pride in what they do well. It suggests a kind of grounded confidence that impresses me more than it should.
"What wouldyourecommend?" I ask, genuinely curious about her answer.
She tilts her head slightly, studying me with those sharp green eyes. "Depends what you're looking for. If you want comfort food, the pancakes with maple syrup and a side of bacon. If you want something that'll stick with you through a long day, the breakfast skillet with extra hash browns. If you're trying to impress someone…." She pauses, and I catch a hint of mischief in her expression. "Well, you probably shouldn't have brought them here in the first place."
The dry humor catches me off guard. I'd expected careful politeness, maybe some residual fear from last night bleeding through. Instead, she's sharp enough to make jokes and confident enough to tease a stranger. There's steel underneath her service industry smile.
"The breakfast skillet sounds good," I say. "And you're right about the long day ahead."
She scribbles the order on her pad, and I notice her handwriting is small and neat. Everything about her movements is measured, slow. The behavior of someone who's learned that mistakes have consequences, but also someone who refuses to let fear make her sloppy.
"You're not from around here," she says, not quite a question. Her eyes are studying my face with uncomfortable intensity, like she's trying to solve a puzzle.
"What makes you say that?"
"The way you sit. Most locals either know everyone in here or they're trying to get noticed. You're watching everything like you're gathering information." She pauses, then adds with a slight smile, "Also, nobody drives across town for breakfast at Rosie's unless they're either lost or have very specific reasons for being in this neighborhood."
The observation is uncomfortably accurate. She's reading me almost as well as I'm reading her, which shouldn't be possible. Sixteen-year-old waitresses aren't supposed to have this level of situational awareness. Even battered ones.
"Maybe I'm lost," I suggest.
"Maybe." But her tone suggests she doesn't believe it. "Or maybe you're the kind of person who likes to understand a place before you decide if you belong there."
The comment hits closer to the truth than I'd like. There's something unsettling about being so easily read by someone who should be focused on taking my order and moving on to the next table.
"You're very observant for someone so young," I say.
Something flickers in her eyes—amusement, maybe, or recognition of a challenge. "You learn to read people pretty quickly in a job like this. Figure out who's going to tip well, who's going to cause problems, who's going to try to get handsy when you're refilling their coffee."
She says it matter-of-factly, but there's steel underneath the casual tone. This is someone who's learned to identify threats because her survival has depended on it. Not just here at work, but everywhere.
"And what's your read on me?" I ask, genuinely curious about her answer.
She studies my face for a long moment, and I can almost see her mind working through possibilities. "Dangerous," she says finally, but not in a way that suggests she's afraid. "Not to me, necessarily. But dangerous. You’re pretty intense."
The accuracy of her assessment sends ice through my veins. She shouldn't be able to see that. Normal people can't read violence in someone's posture or recognize the particular stillness that comes from being capable of terrible things.
But Delilah Jenkins isn't normal people. She's someone who's lived with a monster for sixteen years, someone who's learned to identify predators because her life has depended on it.
"That's an interesting conclusion to draw from a breakfast order," I say carefully.
"Is it untrue?"
The direct question hangs in the air between us, loaded with implications I'm not sure either of us is ready to address. Because she's not wrong, and we both know it. The question is whether she's smart enough to be afraid, or damaged enough not to care.
