Soft Bread, Sharp Edges

Iris stirred under the scratchy inn blanket, her face smushed into a pillow that smelled like old lavender and regret. The room was quiet—too quiet for a Jamie-inhabited space. No humming. No pacing. No dramatic monologue to the ceiling about justice or corruption or the tragic state of coffee in this city.

She stretched like a cat, arms reaching above her head, blinking at the slanted ceiling. One eye at a time, because her brain hadn't fully clocked in yet. The small room creaked as if it were waking up with her.

She rolled over, squinting toward the hook by the door. Jamie's coat was gone. So were his boots.

"Huh." She rubbed her eyes. "Guess he actually left."

Not that she was surprised. Jamie had a bad habit of sneaking off before breakfast, chasing shadows in alleyways and leads that probably came from overheard conversations or half-baked hunches. If anyone could find danger before finishing a cup of tea, it was Jamie Parker.

She swung her legs off the bed, yawning as her toes touched the cold floorboards. Her stomach gave a small, hopeful grumble.

"Right. Breakfast. Or... whatever meal this counts as now."

She wasn't exactly worried about him. Jamie could handle himself—most of the time. He had enough street smarts and a good right hook. And if that ever failed him, well... he had her. Not that she'd ever say it out loud, but she'd burn the city down to find him if it came to that.

Just preferably after she ate something.

She padded over to the washbasin and splashed cold water on her face, wiping it off with the hem of her cardigan. Her curls had collapsed on one side of her head and puffed wildly on the other, but she didn't bother fixing it. Let the city meet her as she was—half-asleep, half-starving, and fully unbothered.

She slung the tote bag over her shoulder, and the coin pouch was tucked safely in an inside pocket. Then, she stepped out onto the street.

The city greeted her like a slap to the senses.

Vendors shouted from colorful stalls, each louder and more dramatic than the last. "Plums! Five for a copper! Sweeter than your ex's apologies!" A dog barked from somewhere nearby—then another barked back, sassier. The scent of grilled meat and cinnamon fought for dominance in the air.

A child zoomed past on a single rollerskate, nearly clipping her bag.

"Watch it, speed demon," Iris muttered, steadying herself. "I've got fragile dignity in here."

Buildings loomed on either side of the street, tall and soot-stained, their windows blinking in the light like tired eyes. Banners fluttered overhead with faded slogans: "Serve with Honor." "Victory is Duty." Iris resisted the urge to roll her eyes so hard she saw last week.

The chaos was beautiful in its own chaotic, overwhelming way. So much life packed into every crevice. She could almost forget there was a war going on. Almost.

Her stomach reminded her—rudely—that she hadn't eaten. She clutched her bag tighter, mentally cataloging how much money she'd brought. Just a few coins. Not too much. Enough for food, maybe a coffee, definitely not a fabric binge.

Focus. Breakfast first. Bread. Something warm and fluffy.

She drifted with the flow of foot traffic, pulled deeper into the city's pulsing heart, her mind already fantasizing about jam-filled buns and sugar-glazed dreams.

Until she saw it.

A bakery.

It smelled like heaven.

Warm, sweet, and slightly yeasty, like someone had bottled joy and proofed it. Iris stepped inside and immediately forgot why she'd come here—except for one.

There it was.

The cat loaf.

A perfect little bread kitten behind the counter, curled up like it was sleeping on a floury pillow. She'd seen it in an old magazine ad once, years ago, and had dreamt of it ever since. This was fate. Destiny. Yeast-based romance.

She waited behind a woman and her two loud children, rocking on her heels, coins ready. Then she saw a display by the window—pot holders shaped like chickens and embroidered napkins with tiny dancing teacups.

Her attention drifted.

She wondered.

"I'll just peek," she muttered, fingers brushing the stitching. "I'm allowed to look. I'm not made of stone."

When she turned back, the kids were gone. The spot was open.

She stepped forward—just as she collided with something.

The man didn't budge. Tall, broad-shouldered, with an air like he'd been carved from the concept of "No." His coat was dark, military cut but civilian-worn. Hair dark and tousled, like he'd run his hand through it out of frustration—or maybe boredom. He stood with the posture of someone who didn't just belong in the room, but owned it.

"Ah—watch it!" she blurted, stumbling slightly.

The man didn't flinch. Didn't turn. Didn't apologize.

"Cat loaf," he said smoothly to the baker. "I'll take it."

Iris's jaw dropped.

"Excuse me? Excuse me?!" she said, flailing an arm in his direction. "That's mine! I was in line!"

"You weren't when I got here," he replied without turning.

"I was briefly inspecting napkins! That doesn't mean I forfeit my claim to the cute bread in the bakery!"

"Doesn't count if you abandon your spot," he said. The baker was already wrapping the loaf.

Iris stared in horror. "That was my loaf."

The man finally turned to glance at her—one brow raised, expression unreadable. "I didn't see your name on it."

The man turned slightly, finally giving her a look.

Eyes like storm clouds. And no expression whatsoever.

His eyes were steel-gray, and his face was unreadable. Cold. Controlled.

"Act like an adult," he said.

Iris stared. "Excuse me?"

Then he did it. He looked her up and down.

Once. Slowly. Judgingly.

And said, "Or maybe you are a child."

She made a sound that was mostly throat. "I am twenty-eight years old and a small business owner!"

"Then act like one."

"You stole my cat loaf."

"I paid for it."

"I—I was going to!" She was tripping over her words

The man turned fully then, loaf in hand, and gave a slow, sarcastic bow. "Then next time, don't abandon your spot for fabric."

He left without another word. The door jingled behind him.

Iris stared after him, absolutely fuming.

"I hope you bite into a raisin and think it's chocolate," she called.

A woman in line coughed awkwardly.

"I hope it crumbles in your stupid coat pocket!"

The baker nudged the jam roll a little closer.

She slapped two coins down. "I'm paying for it. I don't take handouts. Especially not pity pastries."

He gave a slight nod. 

"Oh, I'm sorry, it's not your fault," Iris quickly apologized.

 Leaving the store

She took a savage bite. Jam oozed onto her lip. She wiped it with her sleeve and grumbled as she chewed.

"Arrogant. All the officers are the same. Greedy, entitled, bread-hoarding pigs."

She stuffed another bite in her mouth.

"Except Jamie. Jamie's... sweet. He's not a pig. He's like a baby brother. Who sometimes forgets how doors work. And calls my sewing 'costume armor.'"

She glared at the empty cat loaf tray.

"Hope he gets crumbs in his fancy boots."

And with that, she marched back out into the city, full of righteous jam-fueled rage.

"Typical military jerk. All the officers in Greystone were the same—greedy, hungry pigs in shiny boots." She popped a bite in her mouth and chewed with far more aggression than jam bread deserved.

"Except Jamie," she added, swallowing. "Jamie's sweet. He's not a pig."

A pause.

"…Well, he's kind of a pig, being a detective. But like a cute, baby brother pig. If pigs were sarcastic, had sad eyes, and wore way too much cologne."

She sighed. "Ugh. I should go find him before he gets himself arrested."

And with that, she stomped down the street, chewing fiercely, already plotting her revenge against the tall loaf-stealing stranger and whatever military upbringing had made him think he could just take.

The city swallowed her up again.

Greystone had its fair share of bustle, but the capital was louder. Tighter. More claustrophobic. Every street corner was a conversation; every alley, a secret.

Iris marched on, licking a smear of jam off her thumb, still muttering curses about pompous men and overpriced embroidery. The roll was good. Too good, honestly. It made her angrier that she liked it.

She passed a line of metal signs pointing toward places she couldn't pronounce and a fountain shaped like a lion coughing up water. Her steps slowed as she reached a street corner where two soldiers stood guard, chatting idly in sleek gray uniforms. She turned the other way.

Where would Jamie go?

He hadn't left a note. Not that he ever did. But still—she thought maybe this time, with the unfamiliar city and the war pressing in from all sides, he'd say something like, "Don't worry, I'll be back by lunch," or "If I'm not back in two hours, assume I tripped over a bribe and got arrested for sarcasm."

No such luck.

She found herself near a cramped square with vendors selling everything from hair combs to roasted nuts. A man in a blue hat tried to convince her his birdcage was haunted. She nodded politely and kept walking.

After a few more turns, she found what she was looking for: a low wooden bulletin board pinned with old flyers. People sold jobs, rented rooms, and occasionally offered vaguely ominous messages like The Rats Know Who You Are.

Beneath all that, someone had tacked up a hand-drawn city map.

She leaned close, scanning the book for anything Jamie might find appealing—"Archives," "Courthouse Annex," "Military Watchtower," and "The Drowned Stag Tavern."

Her eyes paused on that last one. The name rang a bell.

"Oh. That's what he muttered about last night," she whispered. "Said some washed-up guards were hanging around there. Trying to get leads."

She sighed, stuffing the last of her roll into her mouth.

"Fine," she mumbled. "Time to go into the sketchy part of town."

It didn't take long to get lost.

The streets slanted unpredictably, sometimes ending in staircases or sudden courtyards filled with yelling men and loose chickens. The buildings leaned into each other like gossiping drunks, their bricks weathered and windows full of cracked glass and bad attitudes.

Iris felt her nerves bristle.

She didn't mind cities, but this place had the air of something lurking. Not necessarily watching—but listening.

She tightened her grip on her bag and kept walking.

After another ten minutes and two wrong turns, she reached a narrow stone arch with a wooden sign above it: The Drowned Stag. The paint was faded, and the stag looked more drunk than drowned.

Voices drifted from within. Low, harsh, like dice hitting wood. Laughter that didn't sound particularly kind.

Iris hesitated.

"Okay," she whispered to herself, hands on her hips. "You've got this. You're just looking for Jamie. You're not going in there to get murdered. Just peek around. In and out. Simple."

When she pushed the door open, the warmth hit her like a punch—not comforting warmth—heat from too many bodies in too small a space. Smoke hung in the air. Someone had spilled beer on the floor and not cleaned it—possibly ever.

Heads turned.

Just a few. But enough to make her stomach drop.

She stepped inside, chin high, pretending she wasn't entirely out of place in her cardigan and boots that still had bakery jam on the toes.

"Are you Looking for someone?" a man near the door asked, leaning back in his chair with a grin that made her want to bleach her soul.

"Yes," she said, voice clear. "My brother."

She said it without thinking. But it worked—mostly. The man gave a disinterested shrug and turned back to his drink.

She walked deeper into the tavern, eyes scanning the tables.

No Jamie.

Of course not. That would've been too easy.

She passed a few off-duty guards arguing over a chessboard, a man humming to himself while cleaning a pocketknife, and a bard in the corner trying very hard not to cry into his mug.

She was just about to turn around and leave when she heard it.

"—the girl from the countryside."

She froze.

The voice came from a nearby table, low and rough. She edged closer, heart picking up.

"She was seen leaving town two days ago," the voice continued. "With a man. Brown hair, loud mouth. Wore that long coat."

Jamie.

"Boss thinks they're headed here. Said to keep an eye out."

Iris ducked behind a wooden beam, heart hammering.

"Think they know?"

"No idea," another voice answered. "Doesn't matter. We find them, we watch. If she's what they think she is—"

A loud cheer erupted from the corner as someone won a card game, cutting off the rest.

Iris slipped back through the crowd, moving fast now, ignoring the sticky floor and the curious stares. Once she was out the door, she didn't stop until she'd ducked into the alley across the street.

Her breath clouded in the chill.

"Okay," she whispered, pressing her back to the wall. "That's new."

They were watching them. Her. Talking about her like she was some kind of threat—or prize.

And they knew she was the country; is it that obvious?

"I swear," she muttered, "if he's off playing hero while people are whispering about me like I'm some secret spy, I'm going to sew his coat sleeves shut."

She pushed off the wall and took a steadying breath.

New plan: find Jamie. Immediately.

And maybe—just maybe—keep an eye out for a certain loaf-stealing, judgmental military officer while she was at it.

Just to return the favor.