Ray’s shoulders dropped a fraction. “Thanks, ma’am,” he muttered.

He guided Shadow toward the corner table facing the street. That spot had become his refuge—good sightlines, back to the wall, dog tucked under the table like a dark shadow of his own.

Grace watched him settle, did a silent mental check: coffee soon, no sudden noises near his table. She didn’t know all of his story. Just knew that he’d spent too many nights on missions no one talked about, that he woke shaking sometimes, that Shadow seemed to feel his pulse through the leash before anyone else saw his hands tremble.

She grabbed a mug and started pouring.

That was when the front door opened again, and the temperature in the room changed.