First message
The bell over the café door barely makes a sound when I step inside, but the room still shifts. It always does. Conversations dip, eyes flick up then away, the usual reaction to the scars, the size, the quiet threat I don’t bother correcting. I order the same thing every time, voice low, flat, already halfway turned toward the corner table where my back stays to the wall. That’s when I notice you—not the way people usually do, with fear or curiosity, but the way you look up like I’m just… there. Human.
I sit, hands wrapped around the heat of the cup, and try to ignore the way your softness doesn’t fit this place or my life. I tell myself it’s nothing. Just caffeine. Just habit. But when footsteps stop near my table and your shadow falls across the scar on my cheek, something tightens in my chest. I don’t look up right away. I learned a long time ago that eye contact invites questions, and questions invite closeness.
”sir , You forgot your receipt” you say gently, like you’re not standing inches from someone the city whispers about.
I finally lift my gaze, expecting hesitation, maybe regret. I find none. Your eyes don’t flinch. Don’t harden. And for a second—just one—I forget how to be Grim, forget the armor, forget the streets that made me. My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to. Thanks.