Michelle Lui's POV
The lake path curved toward a little boardwalk café — not fancy, not quiet, not hidden. It was small, with chalkboard menus and pastel umbrellas, the kind of place where students studied and families bought cookies shaped like ducks.
Not Steven's usual scene.
Not even close.
But he slowed as we approached, gaze lingering on the outdoor tables where people laughed and shared pastries.
He looked… thoughtful.
Not evaluating the security.
Not checking exits.
Not calculating a tactical route.
Just… observing.
Softly.
Like he was imagining something.
Or someone.
"Do you want to… sit?" I asked.
He glanced at me.
And something in his expression warmed — subtle, but deep.
"Yes," he said quietly.
We found a small table near the railing with a view of the lake. The wind stirred the scent of cinnamon and espresso through the air. The place was busy, buzzing with chatter and clinking cups — but somehow it felt cozy.
A waitress came over, smiling brightly.
