"Hey—this is my window seat." "Then don't eat it," Jayla said, mouth full, waving a chopstick like a baton. "You never eat your window seat." "That's because the sun hits it," Elyse said. She tapped the badge at her collar: half-student, half-staff. "And because someone has to keep an eye on the street for scent anchors." "You're serious about scent anchors at lunchtime?" Gracie laughed. "You need a hobby that isn't work and paranoia." "Work and paranoia pay the rent," Elyse said. "Also, stop stealing my chili oil." A hand reached for the booth by the window at the same time Elyse did. She felt the elbow bump before she saw the person. She looked up and met dark eyes that didn't belong to the noodle shop's usual crowd. "Sorry," the man said, politeness precise. He didn't move his hand away right away. He held the edge of the booth as if measuring permission. Elyse smiled a little too fast. "No, you found my seat first." "Then sit," he said. "I'll take the next one." "No," Elyse said. "This is my spot." He blinked, then let his hand go as if conceding a game. He slid into the seat two booths down, not the window. He faced the door like a quiet guard. Elyse returned to her bowl and pretended not to look. "Who was that?" Jayla asked. "A man who thinks 'sorry' gets him a public place," Gracie