The coffee shop looked exactly as it had five years ago when Robert Allen had first approached Louis Carter with a smile that was genuine even if his name was not. Ral arrived thirty minutes early, his broken ribs protesting every movement, and chose the same corner table where their first conversation had turned into three hours of unexpected connection.
He ordered two coffees—one black for himself, one with entirely too much cream and sugar for Louis—and waited with the kind of anxiety that no amount of tactical training could prepare him for. Facing armed contractors had been easier than this moment where words would determine everything.
Louis arrived exactly on time, wearing a simple blue dress that he recognized from their second anniversary dinner. The deliberate choice of that pa
