Soft

She's ironed in every sense of the word, from her slick golden hair to her white button-down and prim A-line skirt.

The woman across the restaurant counter has flint-gray eyes, chiseled planes for cheeks, and dark hair cut like a boy's. A key is tattooed on her forearm.

The energy between them is the same every time, electric and undeniable. Painful. But there's nothing to be done about it. A delicate gold cross hangs heavy around her neck, an ever-present reminder of her husband's edicts on...