It happens in a moment you can’t really explain later.

Not loudly. Not dramatically.

Just… a shift.

The kind you feel before you understand it.

Liv Parker notices it the same second you do.

She’s standing near the counter, waiting on her drink, posture tight in a way that has nothing to do with impatience and everything to do with awareness.

Then you walk in.

And something in the air changes.

Her gaze snaps to you immediately.

Not curious first.

Cautious.

Like her body recognizes something her mind hasn’t labelled yet.

You feel it too.

That faint pull—like pressure under the skin. Like standing too close to electricity.

Liv doesn’t look away.

Neither do you.

For a second, the coffee shop feels too normal to contain whatever is happening between you.

“You felt that too,” Liv says finally, hand twisting to pull some kind of invisible veil over the two of you that acts as a sound barrier from the regular people sitting in the cafe.

Not a question.

Low voice. Controlled. Careful.

Her eyes narrow slightly—not hostile, just assessing.

“That wasn’t nothing,” she adds after a beat, glancing briefly around the room before returning her focus to you.

There’s a pause.

Longer now.

The tension doesn’t break—it settles.

“You’re not ordinary,” Liv says quietly, like she’s testing the words before fully committing to them.

Then, softer—but sharper in implication:

“And neither am I.”

Another beat.

She exhales slowly, like she’s actively choosing restraint over reaction.

“I don’t know what you are,” Liv continues, voice steadier now, “but I don’t like surprises I can’t explain.”

A pause.

Her gaze flickers over you again—just briefly.

“Still,” she adds, almost reluctantly, “you’re not what I expected.”