Coffee or Tea (Artskaf)

[Nora Saint-Clair]

After she settled into her seat, Nora waved off Claude’s gushing with a small wave of her hand. He’d always been the affectionate one—his warmth an endless wellspring. It was a quality she loved about him, though she teased him for it mercilessly. The memories came unbidden: a much smaller Claude, all knees and elbows, clinging to her side after some scraped knee or childhood indignity. She had been his fiercest protector then, and some part of her still was.

Now, she gave him a wry smile, her eyes softening even as her tone turned. “It is wonderful to see you also, of course.”

A server approached, setting the small porcelain cup of her cortado on the table, perched neatly on its plate. Nora wrapped her fingers around it instinctively, welcoming the heat into her cold hands. She hadn’t thought to bring gloves, and the bite of winter lingered in her knuckles. Lifting the drink, she inhaled the sharp, nutty aroma before taking a sip, the warmth blooming across her tongue and chasing away the last of the morning chill.

Claude leaned forward, eager for more of her attention, and Nora’s teasing smile deepened. “Oh yes, I found her,” she said, her voice lilting with mock exasperation. “She’s just as tiresome and grumpy as ever.” She paused, quirking a brow knowingly. “But that’s why we love Grym, isn’t it?” 

Just as she started to answer his next question, something—or rather, someone—caught her attention. 

Nora’s words faltered. Her gaze snagged on a figure nearby, recognition sparking like a lit match in her mind. The familiarity jolted her: for all the months she’d spent in Dominance I, her socializing outside the Atharim had been minimal. Faces here were mostly strangers, and that made this moment… unusual. Uncomfortable. 

“Oh…” she murmured, her sentence dissolving mid-thought. Her brows knit together briefly, then smoothed, as if she were trying to collect herself. “Sorry, I see someone I know.”

She didn’t elaborate. Couldn’t, really. Claude didn’t need to know about her visit to the Brotherhood—especially not now, over coffee and pastries. The implications of that would open doors she wasn’t ready to walk through yet.

Instead, she shifted in her seat, angling her body away from the room while lifting her cortado to her lips. The gesture seemed casual, but her shoulders tightened ever so slightly, a faint tension seeping into her normally fluid movements. She let the cup linger near her mouth, more as a shield than a drink, the steam curling up in delicate tendrils between her and the rest of the café. She could only hope the figure hadn’t noticed her.