She leaned against the doorframe without invitation.
“Do you ever eat at a table,” she asked, “or is it strictly strategic refueling?”
“I eat when necessary.”
She laughed. She actually laughedat me. Even Geoffrey and Chandler seldom got that brave. Yet, oddly, I didn’t hate it.
“That feels on brand,” she said, still taking in the situation.
Silence settled, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.
My gaze dropped briefly to her forearm as she shifted the clipboard. The roller skate tattoo was visible today. Something about the simple black lines called to me.
“You like roller skates,” I said.
Her eyes followed my line of sight.
“I do.”
“It appears permanent.”
She laughed at meagain. I felt the corner of my mouth wanting to turn up in a smile. What was happening right now?
“Yes, that’s generally how tattoos work.”
“What is the significance?” I ask. Or maybe it was a demand, I can’t really tell.
She studied me for a beat, then straightened slightly.
“Roller derby,” she said. “I skate with Grimm Reapers. I block.”
“You block.”
“Yes.”
“You injure people recreationally.”
She smiled. “Only consenting adults.”
I considered that. “It seems unnecessarily aggressive.”
Her smile faltered slightly. I didn’t care for that, but I was still trying to understand the importance.
“It’s a sport.”
“It’s collision.”
“That’s the point.”
I took a bite of my lunch, assessing.
“I don’t like chaos.”
Her posture shifted. Subtle, but present.
“Structured chaos,” she corrected. “There’s strategy. Teamwork. Precision.”
“From what I’ve observed, it’s merely women shoving each other in circles.”
