On a quiet Tuesday morning, Theo saw her again. It was a day like any other, not marked on the calendar with any special event. The streets were filled with the usual hum of life - cars passing by, people rushing to and from their errands, shops opening and closing. Theo was walking down the familiar route he took every day, his mind preoccupied with small worries and thoughts that often drifted away. Then, out of nowhere, he saw her across the street, standing near a small coffee shop. Her presence caught his eye like a sudden flash. She looked the same, yet different, as if time had quietly reshaped her in some small, unseen way.
The precinct hosted an open Q&A at a neighborhood café - part of a city-wide transparency initiative. It sounded bureaucratic, like something someone wrote on a grant application. But the flier had Delaney's name on it. Not "Mara," not even "Officer," just Delaney (PCT 14) in bold blue font.
That was enough.
The café was half-full. A few city employees hovered near the back, sipping free coffee and pretending to take notes. An older couple asked a question about potholes. Someone else brought up noise ordinances.
Theo huddled in the corner of the café, his back pressed against the cool brick wall. His eyes flicked around cautiously, scanning the space but avoiding eye contact with anyone. Carefully, he arranged himself so that his face was hidden partially behind the pages of a well-worn book. It was a cheap copy of The Alchemist, a novel that didn't exactly scream "Help," but it was all he had. Theo wasn't keen on drawing attention — not today, not tomorrow. He tapped his fingers against the cover, feeling the rough edges of the pages, trying to stay small and invisible.
Then she walked in.
Same solid walk. Same expression—serious, alert, a little unimpressed. Her hair was tied back tightly, but her jacket was casual, zipped halfway. No badge today. No uniform. Just that quiet gravity she seemed to carry like muscle memory.
She spotted him almost immediately.
Her eyebrows lifted a fraction—acknowledging, but unreadable. She said a few words to the host, then took a seat near the front, her legs crossed like someone who'd done this routine too many times to be nervous.
Theo stayed quiet until the Q&A started to lose momentum. Then, before he could overthink it, he raised his hand.
"Uh, hi. Theo Ramirez. Student at Coral Springs College."
Mara's eyes locked on him like a laser. The room quieted a little.
"I guess this isn't exactly on the agenda," he said, "but I was wondering… what's the line between paying attention and getting in the way? Like, in public situations. Civil stuff. Are there ways to be aware without being… you know, a problem?"
The question was real, but it was also a test.
Would she brush him off? Embarrass him? Pretend not to know who he was?
She didn't.
Mara leaned forward slightly, rested her arms on the table, and tilted her head.
"That's a good question," she said, voice even. "Paying attention means knowing the context. Reading the moment. Not inserting yourself—but not disappearing, either. Awareness without assumption."
She paused, then added, "And you learn it by practice. Being wrong sometimes. Listening more than you talk."
Theo nodded slowly. "So… showing up?"
"Exactly," she said. "You don't have to be loud to be present."
That was it.
The moment passed, and the session moved on.
Later, outside the café, Theo waited near the corner like he wasn't waiting. Hands in pockets. Backpack slung too low. She came out ten minutes after him, coffee in hand, and stopped beside him like they'd planned it.
"You don't like helpful novels," she said, eyeing the book sticking out of his backpack.
"Guilty," he admitted. "Just needed a prop. Didn't know if you'd talk to me otherwise."
"I'm off duty," she said, shrugging. "We're allowed to have coffee."
They stood in silence for a beat, then another.
Finally, he said, "Can I ask you something else?"
"Sure."
"Can we make this… like, a thing? Not official. Just… I don't know. Coffee, sometimes. Conversations. No weird expectations."
She studied him. Not like she was weighing the risk—but the rhythm. The ask behind the ask.
After a long moment, she replied, "One rule."
He raised an eyebrow.
"We don't talk about age unless it's funny. Or necessary."
Theo grinned. "That's fair."
She nodded. "Coffee shop down on Fifth. Thursdays are quiet. You pick the time."
Then she started walking.
He watched her go, then scribbled something in his notebook.
Rule One: No awkward disclaimers. Just show up.
Rule Two: Age doesn't matter unless someone forgets a meme.
He smiled.
And this time, he walked the rest of the way home without zoning out once.
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