"Yes!" Maya bounces in her seat. "Yes yes yes! Can Biscuit sit with us?"
"He's not technically allowed inside restaurants," Alice says apologetically. "But they have outdoor seating with heaters. If the weather's okay, we could sit outside and he could be with us."
"Perfect," I say, and I mean it. Public, casual, no pressure. No clubhouse politics or small-town gossip. Just pancakes and coffee and maybe a chance to figure out what the hell I'm doing.
"Eight o'clock?" she suggests with a smile, always with a smile. "Or is that too early?"
"Eight is good." I glance at Maya. "We're early risers."
"Then it's a date." Alice's eyes widen the second the words leave her mouth. "I mean—not a date date. Just, you know. Plans. Breakfast plans. With a four-year-old and a dog, so definitely not—"
"I know what you meant," I say, and I'm smiling despite myself. "Eight o'clock. The Grind. We'll be there."
And fuck me, but I actually mean it.
Chapter 5 - Alice
Did I just say *date*?
Oh God, I did. I actually said the word "date" out loud, to a man I barely know, while his four-year-old daughter sits right there listening to every mortifying word coming out of my mouth.
I can feel the heat flooding my cheeks, probably turning them that bright pink color that happens when I'm embarrassed or anxious or both. Which I definitely am. Both. Very much both.
"I mean—" I start again, then force myself to stop. I'm making it worse. Every word I add is making it exponentially worse.
Carter is still smiling. Not a big smile, just that small one that barely touches his lips but reaches his eyes. Like he's amused but not in a mean way. More like he finds my complete lack of social grace endearing instead of pathetic.
"Eight o'clock," he repeats. "We'll be there."
Maya is already planning her pancake order out loud—chocolate chips and whipped cream if they have it, with strawberries on top, and maybe bacon on the side, but only if it's the crispy kind. Biscuit is still in heaven with his head on my lap, tail thumping against the floor every few seconds.
Everything is fine. Normal. I didn't just completely humiliate myself.
Except I kind of did.
"I should probably get going," I say, even though I don't particularly want to. Which is its own kind of dangerous. I came here to thank him, and I did. Mission accomplished. Anything beyond that is just me hoping for something I shouldn't be hoping for.
"Yeah, we should probably get Maya to bed soon," Carter says, glancing at his daughter who is absolutely not displaying any signs of tiredness whatsoever. "Long day tomorrow."
"Right. Yes. Of course." I gently nudge Biscuit's head off my lap and slide out of the booth. He follows reluctantly, probably hoping Maya will somehow come home with us.
Maya hugs Biscuit goodbye like they're lifelong friends being separated by war. "I'll see you tomorrow, Biscuit! We're gonna have pancakes!"
"He's very excited about that," I assure her, even though Biscuit has no idea what pancakes are beyond the vague concept of "food that sometimes falls on the floor."
I look at Carter. He's standing now, and I can see the bandages on his knuckles from last night. The bruise along his jaw that's already turning purple. The exhaustion in his eyes that never quite goes away, even when he smiles.
He told me his whole past tonight. Just laid it out there like he was reading off a grocery list, but I heard what was underneath it. The betrayal. The loss. The way he trusted people who turned out to be monsters, the way he watched good men die for believing in something that didn't exist anymore.
He saw people die. Maybe killed people himself. He didn't say it explicitly, but I could read between the lines. Could hear it in the way he worded things, the way he talked about fights like they were foregone conclusions.
This man has lived a life I can't even imagine. Violence and loss and a kind of darkness I've only ever seen in movies. And yet he's here, taking care of his daughter, probably reading her stories every night, making sure she eats her vegetables. Fighting three men to protect a stranger.
How can someone like that be a bad person?
He can't. I know it in my bones, even though the logical part of my brain is screaming that I'm being naive, that I'm letting a pretty face and a heroic gesture override common sense.
But there's nothing pretty about Carter. He's hard edges and old scars and eyes that have seen too much. There's nothing soft about him except the way he looks at his daughter.
