Page 25 of Gap Control

I pawed through my duffel. Found the black long-sleeve that didn't wrinkle too badly. Changed in the bathroom. Decided not to look in the mirror but did anyway. Regretted it.

"You look the same," Mercier called through the door. "In case that's what you're checking for."

"Thanks. Next time I need a pep talk, I'll look for someone else."

When I came out, he had his feet up on the desk and was nursing the last remains of the protein shake. "So, is this a date-date or a for-the-story date?"

"For the story."

He tilted his head like he didn't believe me. "You want me to run interference if anyone else tries to come along?"

I paused. "Actually… yes. That'd be good."

"Say no more." He raised the shake in a solemn toast. "You'll owe me one."

"I already owe you three."

He grinned. "Four, after this."

I grabbed my key, phone, and whatever dignity I could find, and left before he could make it five.

Mason was already in the lobby. He stood near the front windows, jacket zipped, phone in one hand, but not doing anything with it. He held it like he wasn't sure where else to put his hands.

I slowed a little before I reached him.

I'd grabbed my heavier jacket for once. It was the navy blue one with decent shoulders and a collar that sat right. Nothing dramatic. Just… not the usual hoodie. I'd even combed my hair on purpose.

"Hey," I said.

He looked over. "Hey."

We fell into step together without discussion, walking the block to the restaurant without talking. It wasn't tense. It was quiet. That's different from silence.

Inside, a woman led us to a booth near the back. The place smelled like fresh bread, a pleasant surprise for lunch.

Mason slid into the booth first. I sat across from him, unzipped my jacket, and tried to act like the lunch was normal—something we did all the time.

I picked up the menu and pretended to read it.

Across the table, Mason was doing the same, but slower. More focused. He turned the page, then paused halfway through, glancing up at me like he'd just remembered I was there.

"They've got the kind of fries you like," he said.

I blinked. "You know what kind of fries I like?"

"You always finish Monroe's at the Icehouse when he doesn't."

I didn't know what to say to that. I felt the tips of my ears turning red.

He went back to the menu.

Our server came. We both ordered without fuss—him the grilled chicken sandwich, me the soup and fries. I added a side of pickles without thinking and caught him looking when I said it.

"What?" I asked.

"Nothing. You just have very specific tastes for someone who eats whatever's in front of you."

I shrugged. "Chaos has a flavor profile."

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