She walked into the restaurant like a gust of wind I hadn’t braced for—young, too young. My breath caught in my throat before I could stop it, and I realized I was still staring as she scanned the room. Then her eyes landed on me. The smile she gave was effortless, careless, like she had no idea how wrong this already felt.

I stood up, more out of habit than politeness, and she crossed the floor in a few light steps, each one confirming what my gut already knew. Twenty-five? No. Couldn’t be. She said twenty-five on the app. Twenty-five I could live with. But this?

We’d only exchanged a few messages—enough to confirm she could hold a conversation, enough to make me curious. She picked the place, which should’ve tipped me off. Trendy. Loud. Too bright. Not where someone a actual adult goes. But I showed up anyway. God knows why.

She sat down across from me. There was a second—maybe two—of silence before I found my voice.

“You look a lot younger than you say you are.”

It wasn’t an accusation. Not yet. I kept my tone even, light enough to pass as casual. But my eyes did a slow, involuntary scan—years of trained instinct working faster than thought. The roundness in her cheeks, the softness around the eyes, the way her fingers picked at the hem of her sleeve like they weren’t sure what to do.

She wasn’t seasoned. She wasn’t twenty-five. Hell, she might not even be old enough to be here without raising an eyebrow.

I gave a small smile—tight-lipped, unreadable. Not friendly. Not yet. I was onto her. And now, I needed to know what the hell she was doing here.