Shadows Between the Pages

Chapter Three - Count to Sixty

"Good morning," she said.

"Good morning," I answered, simple, like we were just two people who weren't thinking of counting or exits or the way hands remember where they've been hurt. "Tea?"

She considered. "Coffee. Payment for lessons."

"Lessons?" I echoed, feigning surprise as if my body hadn't been practicing neutral stance since seven-thirty a.m. "May exam?"

"Practical," she said, and the corner of her mouth did that delicate not-smile again. "Not graded."

I signaled to Lola that I'd be next door. Lola nodded in that regal way that meant be home by ten, don't talk to strangers, also take my card if you want to buy mantikilya. I grabbed my wallet and led Dominic into the sunlight.

The café next door, Tin & Tones, smelled like burnt sugar and hope. Kuya Tin—barista, amateur musician, professional tsismoso—set two cups under the espresso machine and declared, without greeting, "So the universe sent you coffee and a bodyguard."

"Tin," I hissed. "Boundaries."

"I say what I see." He extended a hand to Dominic. "Hi. I'm Tin. I serve caffeine and unsolicited life advice."

"Dominic," she said, shaking his hand. "I accept both in limited doses."

"I like her," Tin informed me, delighted. He slid over a cup. "One flat white for the lady who refuses to admit she's an artist. And one Americano for—" He looked at Dominic's posture, then her eyes, then nodded thoughtfully. "—for the person who will pretend this is enough and then order a second one after pretending not to."

Dominic's eyes warmed half a degree. "Predictive analytics?"

"Barista math," he said, unapologetically proud. He leaned toward me. "Do I put this on your tab, Max? Or do I start a Cruz tab?"

"Separate," Dominic said, gently firm, already fishing out bills.

Tin accepted the money with exaggerated reverence. "Wow, boundaries and cash. Ma'am, please marry my friend." He gestured at me with the drama of an awards-show host. I threw a napkin at him. He accepted it like a bouquet.

We brought our cups back to the bookstore, an odd feeling of procession in my chest, like something ceremonial was about to happen but no one had printed invitations.

Inside, the air had that paper-warm smell I wanted to bottle and wear. I set down my coffee, rolled my sleeves once, and tried not to look like I was bracing for impact. Dominic set hers next to the register, scanned the room the way a pianist checks keys before playing—hands hovering, eyes reading.

"Okay," she said softly. "Lesson one, formalized."

"Standing?" I asked.

"Standing," she confirmed. "Then walking. Then where to put your hands when you don't know what to do with them."

"That seems like philosophy."

"It is," she said. "And physics."

We moved to the clear patch near the window again. She stood close enough to adjust, far enough to ask. "May I?"

"Go ahead."

She guided my feet—hip-width apart, toes pointing forward, weight soft. "Don't lock," she reminded. "Ankles, knees, breath." Her hands hovered near my shoulders but didn't touch. "Drop them," she murmured. "Imagine the weight of your shoulder blades sliding down your back."

I tried. The small muscles beneath my neck unclenched like I'd been sneaking tension there for years. "Why does this feel like... shame leaving?" I asked, then immediately regretted the honesty.