Chapter 12 - End-of-Day Briefing

Devon was still smirking when Gideon stood up. He opened his mouth, thought better of it, then gave the world’s most awkward nod toward the counter. “Thanks. See you.”

“Anytime,” Devon called, clearly holding back a laugh.

The door chimed behind Gideon as he stepped out into the crisp Korth air. He hadn’t made it five steps before his brow furrowed. What had just happened?

His thoughts tried to latch onto something useful — an incident report, the confirmation letter from Sentinel Affairs, the requisition list — but instead, that face floated up again. The stranger with the wild honesty and wide eyes. The one who sat down without asking, who waved Devon over like she owned the place, and then, without flinching, ordered his usual tea. She asked for what he was having. Took a sip. And then looked at him like he had personally betrayed her.

He should be annoyed. Or at least thrown off by the lack of etiquette.

But the image stuck. That one braid tucked behind her ear, tied off with a small orange ribbon. The way she tilted her head, brows drawn, and asked, genuinely,

“Are you okay?”

Gideon blinked. Once. Twice. Shook his head in an effort to get rid of the thoughts. The walk home did little to fix anything. Korth’s sharp lines and dusty rooftops usually gave him clarity. Today, it all blurred behind the fog of mental misfires and the residual heat in his ears. Inside, the apartment was tidy and warm. Not cold or lifeless, just precise. Armor rested on its rack by the entry. A few decorative pieces hung on the walls, most of them subtle House Deneith motifs or travel sketches from his brother. The kitchen was compact but gleamed with polish.

He changed into a soft, fitted tunic and rolled up his sleeves. Tonight’s dinner was baked haddock fin from King’s Bay, seasoned with red salt, bay leaf, and dried citrus. It roasted gently over root vegetables in a thin broth, and when he opened the oven, a wave of savoury warmth spilled into the air. He plated the meal with methodical care, then carried it to the table by the window. And like clockwork, just as he set the plate down, a chirp announced the arrival of his true superior.

Sir Pounceforth the Third. Tuxedo tyrant, soft-pawed sentinel, and master of the apartment. Perched on the arm of the couch, blinking slowly like a monarch acknowledging his most loyal subject.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said without glancing up.

The tuxedo cat lifted his chin from the bookshelf, eyes gleaming.

“Your Excellency,” Gideon added as he set his own plate down. “You’ve been fed. On time. Twice.”

Sir Pounceforth the Third leapt down with slow ceremony and padded toward his bowl like royalty inspecting a tribute.

Gideon took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, and sighed.

“I wasn’t flustered. That’s just how my face looks when someone, without asking, mind you, sits at my table.”

The cat flicked an ear.

“It’s a shared space, yes. But there are rules. Unspoken rules.”

No response.

“She didn’t even hesitate. Just ordered the same tea and—who doesn’t like sweet milk tea?”

Sir Pounceforth looked pointedly at Gideon’s cup.

“Okay, most people. Fine. But still. That reaction was excessive.”

The cat licked his paw.

“And then she had the audacity to make that face. That… startled, apologetic face.”

Silence.

“I’m not talking about her eyes.”

The cat paused mid-lick.

“Stop looking at me like that. I’m not.”

Sir Pounceforth blinked once. Slowly.

Gideon finished his meal in silence. The roasted roots had softened just right. The fish flaked apart with a gentle press of the fork. It was quiet, content food. He washed up. Tidied the counter. Set out food for the next morning. He moved with the kind of rhythm that suggested control, routine, discipline.

Until he caught himself remembering that ribbon again. Burnt orange, tied casually at the end of a braid behind her ear. Bright, a little lopsided, and completely unforgettable in a place like Korth.

“I don’t know who she is,” Gideon added. “Probably just passing through. Doesn’t matter.”

The cat blinked again. Disbelieving.

“Anyway,” he finished, standing to clear the plate, “not like she’s going to sit at my table again.”

Sir Pounceforth yawned.

Later, after a final sweep of the apartment and a shower, Gideon set his alarm and climbed into bed. The room was dark, the quiet hum of the city just audible through the closed window. He settled into the mattress, one arm behind his head. And somewhere in Gideon’s thoughts, as the edges of sleep began to pull him under, a flicker of a question passed through.

I wonder if she’ll sit at my table again.

A faint smile crossed his face. He didn’t notice.

But Sir Pounceforth the Third did.