I took a spoonful, tasted it, then grimaced. "This tastes like despair."
"It's oats."
"It's sad oats."
Coffi and Latte nearby snorted.
Viking watched me over his own bowl. "You're grumpy."
"I am restrained."
"You threatened violence."
"Emotionally."
He tilted his head, studying me with that quiet intensity that made my skin prickle. "You didn't move away."
I choked.
On oats.
"What?"
"When I touched you," he clarified, far too calm for a man bringing that up in public daylight. "You didn't pull away."
My face heated instantly. "Because I was tired."
"Mhm."
"And because you startled me."
"Mhm."
"And because—" I stabbed the porridge with my spoon. "—I was deciding whether homicide was worth the paperwork."
That finally did it. He smiled. Not teasing. Not smug. Soft. Again. "You're interesting when you're exhausted," he said.
I glared at him. "You're lucky I like you."
He blinked. "You do?"
I froze.
Silence.
