Chapter 8 - Tea, Tension, and Tactical Retreat
It had been a quiet week. No high-profile assignments, no visiting diplomats needing sword-and-shield escort. Just early morning patrols around the outer wards and the occasional paperwork shuffle from Caelan's desk.
Which meant, for once, Gideon had time for tea.
He arrived at Inkwyrm & Co. just past the mid-morning rush, armor polished and cloak still carrying a trace of cool wind from the street. Devon, already behind the counter with sleeves rolled up and smirking like he’d expected him, simply gestured to the back corner. His usual table.
Gideon nodded in silent thanks and settled in, the tension from patrol bleeding away into the warmth of the tower café. His second cup of the day sat comfortably in his hands — milky, sweet, predictable. A little indulgence before the world inevitably got loud again.
Except it wasn’t the world that got loud.
It was the scrape of a chair being pulled out across from him.
He looked up, startled.
Someone — a young woman, unfamiliar, completely unaware of the unspoken rules of Korth café etiquette — had sat down across from him as casually as if she’d been invited. She didn’t look at him. Just exhaled and shook the rain from her sleeves like this was all perfectly normal.
No one in Korth did this.
She glanced up briefly, offering a simple smile. “Full house. Lucky I found a seat at all.”
Gideon blinked. His brain stumbled. Words assembled in his head and promptly abandoned formation.
She waved toward Devon like this happened all the time. “I’ll have what he’s having.”
Devon, mid-wipe of a cup, paused. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” she said brightly. “Can’t be bad if he’s drinking it like that.”
Gideon blinked again.
He was drinking it like what?
By the time the drink arrived, he had managed to sit up a little straighter, desperately trying to project composure. She lifted the cup, took a bold sip… and physically recoiled.
“Oh my Lord, it’s like drinking sugar syrup with a splash of leaf.”
She stared into the cup, visibly betrayed. “Is that… is there condensed milk in this?”
“…Yes,” Gideon said finally, voice low and serious, the only kind he had.
“And honey. And a little vanilla.”
She stared at him. “Are you okay?”
A beat passed. Devon, behind the counter, actually wheezed.
Gideon coughed once. Not from the tea, but from the sudden and inescapable sensation of his face catching fire. His ears burned first, then his cheeks, then somewhere deep in his chest. The blush climbed with alarming speed. His palms went clammy, fingers tightening awkwardly around his cup as if holding it tighter would somehow anchor him to this moment and stop it from spiraling into deeper mortification.
Stay calm. Like during a street-side interrogation. Like when that noble’s dog peed on your boots and you had to pretend it didn’t happen. Steady breath. Controlled tone. You are literally trained for pressure.
Unfortunately, they’d never trained him for "cute stranger casually sitting at your table and teasing your tea order."
He fixed his gaze just past her shoulder, on a knot in the woodwork that had never seemed so important. His ears felt like they might combust.
“…It’s comforting,” he said finally, voice low, measured, and so painfully composed that it almost made the blush worse.
There was a pause.
Then, her lips pulled into the most awkward smile he’d ever seen.
Like she was trying to look polite and unbothered but also very clearly battling the realization that she’d just insulted someone’s taste and accidentally sat herself into a slow-simmer meet-cute.
“…Right,” she said, eyebrows raising slightly.
And then — suddenly, urgently — she straightened in her seat. “Oh. OH. I- I actually have somewhere to be.” Her eyes went wide like the realization had just hit her like a magic missile. “Completely forgot. Wow. Yep. Definitely late.”
She gave a tiny, muttered pep-talk under her breath: “Okay, just get up. That’s fine. Totally normal.”
Then, without warning, she grabbed the mug, winced once more at the sweetness, and downed the rest like she was doing a shot at a tavern.
Devon, drying glasses behind the counter, blinked slowly.
She coughed once, gave a faint wheeze, then quickly slung her bag over her shoulder and bolted upright.
“Thanks for the tea!” she said, loud enough for half the café to hear, and turned to Devon.
“Really. It was… very… sweet.”
And then she was gone. A blur of boots and fluster and the door chime ringing in her wake.
Gideon sat frozen.
Still staring at the knot in the wood.
Still red.
Still processing.
“…What just happened. And who the- ” he muttered, mostly to himself.
From behind the counter, Devon didn’t miss a beat.
“Not so tough now, are you, Captain Gidlet.”