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“Where did the two pumps of caramel come from?”

I laugh, and lean back. “A barista, actually.”

“Really?” Her eyes come all the way up now, and stay.

“Years ago I ordered a regular white mocha.” I catch myself starting to mirror her, fingers drifting to my own cup, and make myself stop. “She told me to trust her and add two pumps of caramel.”

“And?” She’s stopped fidgeting. She’s just watching me tell it now.

“I trusted her.” I shrug.

She smiles, and something in her shoulders lets go, like she’d been braced for me to be less interesting than I’m turning out to be.

“You’ve ordered it ever since?”

“Pretty much.”

She takes one more sip before sliding the cup back across the table.

“I can see why.”

“My turn.”

I pick up her latte and take a drink.

It’s sweeter than mine, but not by much.

I set it back in front of her with a nod.

“I approve.”

She laughs.

“I’ll take that as a compliment too.”

For a second neither of us says anything.

Not because it’s awkward.

Because it isn’t.

We’re just...comfortable.

It’s a strange thing to realize about someone you’ve only known through a phone screen for four days.

Some conversations require work.

This one seems to find its own rhythm.

She wraps both hands around her cup and tilts her head ever so slightly.

“A firefighter, huh?”

I pause halfway through another sip.

She noticed.

“I saw the pictures on your Instagram,” she says quickly. “There were a few in front of the fire truck.”