Nigel watched fog curl along the cliffs beyond the guesthouse window, teacup warm in his hands. Civilian clothes. Comfortable. Harmless. He hated it.

The village was little more than a dot on the coast—a handful of homes, a pub, and a tearoom called Smoke & Steam. He hadn't meant to stay, but the scent of vanilla, rose, and woodsmoke had drawn him inside.

Then there was the owner. Quiet. Clever. Observant. The sort of person who noticed things. He returned the next day. Then again after that. Routine, he told himself. Cover.

Now he sat by the window, candlelight flickering across cooling tea. His eyes drifted to the handwritten tag tied to the cup.

Second Chances.

A faint smile tugged at his mouth. "Curious name," he murmured. "Almost makes a man wonder what he's meant to be forgiven for."