“Yes.”
Her expression changes. Fear passes through her face, but it does not stay long enough. Irritation arrives behind it carrying a knife.
“Those absolute moldy sacks of—” She cuts herself off and looks down at me. “Sorry. Thank you. Again, I guess. Even though this is technically our first real conversation, unless you count me babbling at you in the street while you silently judged my life choices.”
“I did not judge.”
“Really? Because you have the face of a man who judges soup.”
I do not know what to do with that sentence.
She smiles, smaller than the one from the plaza but more tired. “I’m Evie. I told you earlier, but I was also standing in the rain talking to myself, so maybe the introduction didn’t land.”
“I remember.”
Her eyes brighten as if those two words are a gift. “Oh. Good. Great. And you are?”
The question is simple. My name should not feel intimate. It is one syllable. A sound. A designation painted on old armor, printed in military files, cursed by dying enemies, spoken by squadmates whose voices now exist only in memory.
“Kauss,” I say.
“Kauss,” she repeats, and the name becomes something else in her mouth. Softer. Not weaker. Just less like a weapon.
My chest tightens with an emotion I do not trust.
“Well, Kauss,” she says, “thank you for protecting my door from idiots with bargain-bin burglary tools.”
“You need stronger locks.”
“I need a lot of things. Stronger locks are definitely on the list somewhere between oven repair and a vacation I’ll never take.”
“You should install a reinforced deadbolt. Interior brace. Motion sensor near the back step.”
“Are you offering professional security consultation, or is this more of a brooding public service?”
“It is basic survival.”
Her smile fades a little. “Yeah. We do too much of that around here.”
The rain grows heavier, drumming on the awning, the trash lids, the window ledge beneath her hands. She shivers, and irritation strikes me because she should close the window, should go somewhere warm, should not be exposed to cold rain because she is too stubborn to end a conversation with a dangerous male in an alley.
“Go inside,” I say.
“Bossy.”
“You are cold.”
“You are standing in the rain wearing a jacket that looks like it lost a fight with a garbage compactor.”
“It is sufficient.”
“It is absolutely not sufficient. It’s a cry for help with sleeves.”
I look away because something almost pulls at my mouth. “Good night, Evie.”
“Wait. Kauss?”
I stop again, though every survival instinct I have insists this woman is more dangerous than the three gang youths, the alley, and every weapon hidden within six blocks.
